Power Cut
by tarajcl
Summary: Set in Armada, after 'One to Waltz'. Megatron is busy plotting. Unfortunately, so is Sideways. NOTE: Old!fic. Reuploading chapters, nothing to see here.
1. Prologue: Creatures

NOTE: Was requested to re-upload this, so here it is. Please don't bother to concrit; this was three years ago, I _know exactly_ how bad it is. Unless you were one of the ones requesting, seriously, just ignore this.

Prologue: Creatures

_Flames._

_They were all he ever saw. _

_Whenever he lay back to recharge, whenever he shut off his optics, the flames would be waiting for him. Visions of twisted metal and a bright orange wall of fire replayed themselves over and over again in his mainframe. The smoke, the heat, the _pain_…he could remember them so vividly it felt like reliving the experience. He had been saved from the flames only to find the same flames in his nightmares. Burning, crackling, killing, blazing, wiping out everything in its wake. And he was there, trapped like a rat beneath a tiger's paw. _

_Abandonment._

_Why? Why hadn't he come back? Why hadn't anyone come back? What had he done to deserve this horrible end? He'd tried his best, hadn't he? Hadn't he? Primus, so scared…_

_He knew he was going to die. He could feel it waiting, the icy touch of darkness ready to take him from the world of flames. _

_When he hadn't, it had felt like the intervention of a miracle. _

_He was a scientist. He did not believe in fate, or godly powers, or miracles. But he did believe in salvation, and he had discovered that he could believe, very deeply, in revenge._

_Despair._

_The fire drew closer and he screamed, whimpering and praying like an infant for his friend to return to him. After a while, he had lost hope on him, and simply began hoping for anyone, anyone at all to come help him. And someone had. His salvation had come in the form of a most unusual saviour._

_Why would anyone come back for him? He was a weak to average fighter at best, a lousy inventor and a poor shot to top it off. He was used to being ignored and pushed around by older, stronger mechs with more experience in battle. He was expendable. He knew it deep inside his spark, though he hated it. If not his best friend, who would waste time and resources saving his hide? _

_Being rescued by the Decepticon leader himself came as something of a shock. But it had been a welcome one. _

_The white-hot creatures licked closer, closing in on him again. Reflections of the flames danced upon his torso, consuming him for the millionth time. A transformer could sense temperature, but he could not exactly understand how burning __**felt**__. Yet he was certain it felt a lot like hate. _

_Revenge. Salvation. Pain. Terror. _

_The flames leapt._

Wheeljack snapped out of recharge, shot bolt upright and bit back a scream.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone watched.

Not altogether surprising. In most situations, someone is always watching. Lichen, flies, walls, all of them are very good at seeing things that no one is supposed to see. Although, for some reason, their point of view is never taken into consideration.

This someone was different though. This someone was watching _everything_. At least, everything on earth.

The absence of lichen, flies or walls was also a point worth noting. This someone was in space.

He had spread himself out across the planet's ozone layer, and hung there now, a virus poised to rain death upon those sleeping below. Wrapped around the sphere like a coiled serpent, ready to strike at all below with a mouth full of venom. The Autobot base, the moon, the bottom of a lake, nothing could escape his observant gaze. In this form he could do nothing but he could see everything he wished to. An arch of stars swept across the ink-black sky and he was surrounded by utter silence.

Something had gone wrong.

The floating presence would have frowned, if it had a face. He didn't mind things going wrong, although he hated it when it happened to him. It meant that, somehow, he had failed to do his job. And he most certainly minded that. His plans were always simple and, most of the time, devastatingly effective. He corrupted factions, loyalties, wars as easily as a computer bug corrupted a system. It was his function, his life. But something had gone wrong.

The plan had developed a chink. A very, very small chink, but a most definite chink.

They weren't supposed to _be_ here! None of them should still be on this accursed planet. Were things going according to his beloved plan, they should all be heading for Cybertron right now. It had all been going perfectly. The Autobot ship was well on the way to being fully repaired, as was the Decepticon base. But neither would take off until either Megatron had gotten his hands upon all three super-weapons or Optimus Prime had locked all the Minicons in a big room where the Decepticons couldn't get at them. Fools.

The vaporous creature wafted through space, pondering to itself.

Still, no matter. It was all fixable. It did mean that things would have to become a little more…complicated. That was fine. Complication just meant that there were more things to go wrong. Complication meant more things to taint and destroy and break down. Greater complication increased the potential for chaos.

And he did so love chaos.

It would be easy. Yes…already a plan was beginning to take root in his mind.

He stared down upon the planet below before idly turning his gaze to look upon a certain spot in the night sky, as though he could see past the stars, past the planets, past the thousands of astromiles to where Cybertron lay, helpless.

In the darkness between Earth and the infinite expanse of space, the invisible particles drew themselves together long enough to form a faint, grey smile.

The fools had no idea what was about to hit them.

Sideways laughed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The silver-blue sea shone in the sunlight like a field of broken glass. The waves crashed against the bare rock wall, sending up white spray to gently rain down upon the hard surface. The sky was strewn with white clouds piling on top of one another, but the sunlight still touched everything.

A storm had broken over this place not long ago, maybe just the previous night. Everything was damp, the birds, the cliff, the rocks. The gulls were only just starting to circle above once more. They landed upon the rocks. They would have landed on the sand, had there been a beach.

They did _not_ land upon the big yellow thing sitting on the edge of the cliff, because there are some things even gulls won't do.

Hot Shot swung his legs once more. He was miles away from any danger of being sighted by a human and had received permission from Optimus to get out of the base and stretch his legs. He claimed that it was due to a severe bout of cabin fever, but it wasn't true. He just wanted to have some time alone to think, that was all.

Of course, avoiding yet another training lesson with Scavenger might have had something to do with it. The ex-mercenary had been keeping his nosecone to the grindstone all week, saying that he was getting 'better'.

'_Bout time_, thought Hot Shot.

From behind, he heard the sound of an approaching car, making bumpy progress on the rocky ground. It was followed by the sound of a clumsy transformation, which in turn was followed by the sound of a curse and a crash as someone caught their foot on something and fell to the ground.

"Hey, Sideswipe", said Hot Shot as he turned around.

His blue friend removed his face from the gravel and looked up at him, grinning apologetically. As a transformer, Hot Shot could not roll his eyes, but the blue glow of his optics flickered briefly towards the heavens as he offered a hand.

"Whaddya doing out here?", Sideswipe asked, as Hot Shot yanked him to his feet.

"Nothing."

Sideswipe gave him a confused look, cocking his head to one side. He skipped over to the edge and stood staring down at the pounding sea below with wide optics.

"Wow. Pretty.", he commented. "Whaddya doing?"

Hot Shot sighed and said, "Nothing. Weren't you listening?"

"Yeah, but you're lying. Wonder why?"

Hot Shot's jaw sagged as he mentally slapped himself. It was easy to forget that Sideswipe, despite his clumsiness and youth, could often be strangely perceptive. Meanwhile, the codebreaker had returned to goggling at the waves.

"Geez. Do they do that all the _time_? Why d'ya come up here, bro?"

He gave up.

"Just thinking", he muttered.

"'Bout what?"

"Stuff. Give a guy some privacy, will ya?"

Sideswipe turned away from the ocean to look at him, his teal-blue optic-band blinking owlishly. As per usual, completely ignoring the impatient, aggressive response he was receiving. For someone who could, in fact, be strangely perceptive, he never seemed to pick up the signs that suggested his presence was not wanted. Hot Shot was beginning to suspect he did it on purpose.

" 'Bout Wheeljack?"

In fact, he was sure that he did it on purpose. This time Hot Shot's jaw not only fell open; it nearly continued going until it hit the Earth's core.

"…How?", he asked weakly. When last he'd checked, the youngest Autobot had not developed the ability to read minds.

"Because whenever you go somewhere alone to think, you're thinking about something bad. And whenever you're thinking about something bad, you're thinking about Wheeljack.", said Sideswipe calmly, earning a goggle-eyed stare from his friend.

"…Okay…you're good.", admitted the young warrior.

"Hey, I'm a codebreaker. I'm good at deductions.", shrugged the younger bot. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want. I was just wondering. Umm… you're okay, right? Jolt was kinda worried. I mean, you're not going to jump off the cliff just because of a little angst, right? I'd seriously hate to have to explain that to Optimus."

"Na. Not today. Thanks, bro.", said Hot Shot with a smile. He was glad that he would not be called upon to give an account of the bitter, angry thoughts that had been flying around in his head all morning. The visions of flames, of wreckage, of a gun, of betrayal…

His jaw was clenching again and he stopped before Sideswipe noticed.

"Need a hug?", queried Sideswipe with a grin.

"Don't even _think_ about it.", Hot Shot warned, although he grinned back. The younger Autobot always managed to cheer him up. Either that or annoy him so much he soon forget what was bothering him in the first place.

"You…ah…you want to race, man?", asked Sideswipe, anxious to establish normality again. He hated it when Hot Shot thought about Wheeljack. The thought of the darker mech who had left him to die burning never failed to send a shiver down the young Autobot's back.

The yellow sports-car hesitated, before saying, "Yeah". As they both transformed, he cast a dark glance to the shimmering horizon, bright and pure in the cleansing sunlight.

He bet it hadn't looked that pretty during the storm.


	2. Input

Input

"GAAAAIIEEEEE!"

The shriek echoed throughout the Decepticon moon-base. It ricocheted off the walls and bounced off rocks outside. It found its way into dark little crevices and cracks in the floor. It shot like an arrow into the audio receptors of all who heard it.

Cyclonus had a very loud shriek.

In the monitor bay, Wheeljack was jerked from his boredom-induced daze and jumped back from the wide screen with a panicked squawk. Beside him, Demolisher growled and waited for the ringing to stop. Grumbling, the green transformer picked up Black Out, who had fallen backwards off his head.

Monitoring the planet Earth: One of the more incredibly mind-numbing jobs in the history of space-travel. Three times now had Demolisher almost gone into stasis against the computer screen, which was one of the reasons Cyclonus was never given monitor duty.

This did, however, allow him more free time to alternately sleep and wander around causing low-level havoc.

"Slaggit, Cyclonus, you'd better not be in my room!" the black car shouted, and was met only with ominous silence. He waited. Silence from Cyclonus could be just as dangerous as noise. At least when he made a noise, you had an idea of what he was up to.

Wheeljack's "room" consisted of a recharge bunk, a table and a great deal of very temperamental, very sensitive equipment. It also contained several brightly coloured tubes, which the copter-bot had a disturbing affection for. If Wheeljack did not keep a close optic on him, he was apt to mix them up as though they were cocktails, without worrying about the consequences. Twice now Wheeljack had found him holding a noxious, glowing tube with a blackened face and a confused look.

"Hope he hasn't set anything on fire again," grunted Demolisher, returning to the task of staring at the screen. His Minicon crawled up once more to resume his position on the Decepticon's shoulder. Wheeljack shook his head.

"Almost certainly not. I've fireproofed the entire lab, he couldn't if he tried."

Despite this, he listened once more for the sound of tinkling glass and big, crashing noises. It wasn't that the ex-Autobot didn't trust his comrade; it was just that he didn't trust his comrade near anything flammable, unstable or delicate. It was strange, really, that the helicopter was the only person he allowed into his precious lab. Apart from Megatron, of course, who made routine inspections of his little experiments. As far as he could see, Cyclonus had no redeeming features whatsoever, as far as he could see.

Well, he was funny, at least.

Although Wheeljack was unaware of it, that was the reason Cyclonus deemed to spend most of his spare time in the company of a mech who he regarded as a nut-job in desperate need of therapy; unlike any other person he had ever encountered, Wheeljack actually found his jokes amusing.

Three seconds later, the berserker in question appeared, darting quickly into the room as the doors slid closed behind him. He was twitching nervously and glancing behind him.

"Cyclonus, is this about the invisible blue things that live in the walls again?" asked Wheeljack stoically, without turning around. Demolisher snorted.

Cyclonus looked to his comrade, blinking foolishly before shaking his head.

"Uh-uh! Weren't them this time," the orange and blue helicopter stated. Sighing, Demolisher turned round, and noticed instantly that the copter-bot looked distinctly guilty. A sinking feeling welled within him, as images of what had happened the last few times Cyclonus had looked guilty ran through his mind like a horror show.

"Uh…Cyc, there aren't any explosives involved in this, right?" he asked hopefully, and gave a sigh of relief when the other shook his head.

"It's Thrust," he muttered, glancing back once more and edging away from the door. At this, even Wheeljack turned around to look quizzically at the warrior-technician. The green and black form of their 'dear' tactician was not known to invoke unearthly screams of terror in his wake. Unless…

"What did you do?" he asked flatly.

The copter-bot looked oddly sheepish. He shifted his weight nervously, turning his face to the floor and muttering a long, rambling sentence. Whilst Wheeljack had some problems understanding it all, he caught the key phrases.

"…and when he saw what I'd done to his desk, he came at me with a blowtorch," finished Cyclonus.

'Blowtorch' being one of them. The two other pairs of optics brightened.

"_Thrust_ attacked you?" questioned Demolisher, choking back a groan. This information seemed to imply that Cyclonus had been very bad indeed.

"Yeah. Sort of. And that was before he saw the mess Crumplezone made of his quarters. After that…"

Shaking his head, Wheeljack was about to form an answer when the doors hissed open once more, causing Cyclonus to leap into the air with a squeal. Instead of an infuriated Thrust, however, they parted to reveal the Decepticon leader. Those in the room instantly stood to attention to greet him.

"Cyclonus," growled Megatron as he strode in, evidently irritable. "What was that infernal racket about?"

Demolisher looked straight ahead as Cyclonus burbled a hastily edited version of the event. His commander had been in a filthy mood for the last few weeks, ever since what he had dubbed 'the Starscream incident'.

Over the last month, the tyrant had been storming about the base, ranting about their slow progress on repairing the ship and generally being twice as disagreeable as usual. There had been one time when, in a flash of temper, he had been about to punch a hole in the base's main power unit. Demolisher had almost lost his arm preventing his leader from electrocuting himself, although after realizing what he had been on the verge of doing, Megatron had managed to get control of himself. His behaviour for the last few days had been almost restrained.

However, Demolisher was aware that getting on his bad side at the moment by not showing respect would not be idea. He mentally ran a checklist of all his chores, relieved that they were all complete and Megatron could probably not find anything to yell at him for.

Demolisher glanced sideways at Wheeljack, who stood straighter than an arrow, the way he always did before Megatron.

Privately, Demolisher was impressed. In the few months since his arrival, the kid had not done so much as throw the commander a dirty look. Even he, so reputed for his loyalty, had occasionally been of the opinion that what Megatron needed most was a whack upside the head. Not this guy. He never questioned orders, although he wasn't as grotesquely boot-licking as Thrust. Wheeljack simply behaved as though following Megatron was his duty, his assigned role in life. And, sometimes, it scared the slag out of Demolisher.

After Megatron finished berating Cyclonus at some length, he drew himself up and inspected his men.

"Hmph," he said in dissatisfaction.

"Men," he said suddenly, in a loud voice that drew a silent groan from all in the room. It was the same sort of loud, triumphant voice which tended to mean that their mighty leader had thought up yet another a plan which would inevitably lead to _trouble._

"I have an announcement to make. Soon, we will no longer be alone in our battle for the Minicons. I have sent for reinforcements!"

_And I __**haven't**__ spoken about it to Thrust_, he thought as they all stared at him. The tactician's last two plans had both been spectacular failures, much to his lack of amusement. Truth told, his faith in his second's abilities was beginning to waver. So, he had given the order without any consultation first. Doubtless, he would be a tad perturbed when he found out. Shame.

"Four new recruits shall be arriving at the warp gate in two hours."

The proclamation was met with complete silence as the three regarded him in surprise. Unable to think of anything else to say, Demolisher blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

"But-Why?"

He cursed himself. Stupid Demolisher, always talking, never thinking. Of course he knew why. It was obvious why…

Megatron's face had twisted most unpleasantly, and his optics were cold slits upon the warrior. And he had been so _close_. Two more minutes and he could have gotten out in one piece. As the warlord opened his mouth, Demolisher braced himself for it.

"Because," he began, softly at first, "despite the fact that you have, in times past, proven yourselves to be among my strongest warriors, I have detected a disturbing trait in all of you. Perhaps I should have realized this back on Cybertron, but I am quite sure it only developed after a month of living next to this blasted planet and its blasted satellite. What I have noticed is this; _you are all__** ineffective**_!"

A dark fist flashed out and slammed down upon the nearest terminal, sending a crack running down its side. As the echoes died down, Megatron composed himself and continued in a low growl.

"We should be in control of the planet by now. We should have returned to our home by now. By all rights, I should be in unquestioned control of the galaxy. This is not so. Instead, I find myself stranded upon a chunk of rock in space, engaged in a war with a group of Autobots who we should have ground into the dust eons ago. You have not achieved this. As the time passes, I am growing to suspect that you will never achieve this. Especially seeing as we are currently outnumbered five to nine. _That_ is why I am sending for reinforcements."

He ran a cold glare over his soldiers, who stood like a group of rabbits before a wolf.

"You will all be at the warp gate in two hours time to greet the new recruits. And the next time we go into battle we will _not _lose and I will _not_ have to face another embarrassment such as the one yesterday. Do I make myself clear?"

A chorus of 'yes sir's rang out.

"Good."

The Decepticon leader turned on his heel and stalked out the doors, which shut behind him with a hiss once more. The silence that followed was broken by a giggle from Cyclonus.

"Gee, it's nice get a pep talk, isn't it?" he said innocently, grinning at Demolisher.

"Better than one from Thrust, at least," commented Wheeljack with a shrug.

"Shut up.", the tank growled at them in a dark voice, turning back to stare furiously at the monitor, muttering under his breath.

* * *

It was almost too easy.

Before coming into the…_employment_ of his current master, he had been something of a mechanic. Something of a rather brilliant mechanic, if he said so himself. And, with the input of his master's endless knowledge, he was able to piece together the final image of his creation.

Parts and parts of parts had been stolen from all available sources. Atoms rearranged in some places, connections made between a million tiny circuits. Every detail personally taken care of by his gaseous, electric touch. Most of the time he simply manipulated the separate components with his mind, but when this proved impossible, he was fully capable of solidify himself.

He altered his shape countless times to fit into parts of his creation, checking it over and over for any flaws. Aware that they might easily detect it on radar, he had designed it with a cloaking device.

It was simpler than it could have been.

Cybertronian mechanics had been attempting to create one for years, as a method of rendering the enemy helpless. He had long since stolen the knowledge from their minds. As far as he recalled, they had all died quite horrible deaths a few days after his invisible thievery had taken place.

One thing he did pride himself on was not leaving loose ends.

Of course, he could have just used his master's direct, brutal method of dealing with problems. But he often preferred games to massacre. Oh, he did like games. It was a small, guilty weakness of his; he took a certain pleasure in playing with the stupid, gullible, mindless fools of both factions. It had been too long since he had played his last game. So he had decided to use a method of manipulation that was a little more…complicated.

It had taken him three weeks to complete. When finished, it hovered over the Earth's atmosphere, caught between the moon and the planet. A sleek, silver monster, similar to an Earthling television satellite. His creation.

Sideways allowed himself to feel just a smidgen of pride at his cunning and resourcefulness. Now, all he had to do was choose his moment.

* * *

They arrived exactly on time. When you were summoned by the leader of the Decepticon army himself, you didn't waste precious minutes on packing.

Cyclonus stood leaning against a wall as the four stepped from the warp platform and lined up before Megatron for inspection. The gigantic Tidal Wave was sitting down across the room, silent as always. Watching him, the helicopter wondered if he actually knew how to anything apart from swat Autobots and collect dust. Without a great deal of interest, he ran an optic over the latest recruits.

_Lessee…guy with wings, big guy, small guy-wait, small femme, another guy with wings. Hmm… Note: guy with wings looks weirdly familiar…_

As Megatron strode by the four Decepticons, he was aware of Thrust in the background, standing straight and looking petulant. His second had not been pleased to discover that the commander had made a decision without consulting him first. The fact that, for some reason involving Cyclonus, his torso looked as though he had been dipped in a shiny kind of pink paint was not serving to lessen his bad mood.

Oh, well.

The first was a large, silver mech, standing a foot taller than Megatron himself. His form had deep red highlights, and his head looked strangely out of proportion with the rest of him. Small, no mouth, the bottom half of his face ending in a built-in coverplate. Despite the fact that nearly everything about him projected the words "grunt work", there was a dark intelligence gleaming in his ruby optics. Upon his shoulder was a massive silver cannon. Next to him stood a smaller one, a femme in this case. Pale green, arms and legs that ended in dull grey. No apparent weaponry, save for a removable pistol on either leg. A metallic band extended round her head-dome to cover her optics entirely. And beside her…

_Oh, no._ Megatron grimaced. What, in the name of all the gods had possessed him to request _them_? Did he really need an aerial force that much? Couldn't some ground-bots have served him just as well?

They were both winged, and practically identical, save for a few small differences. The first was blue, a scarlet faceplate and white highlights on his arms and torso. Ice-blue optics and ray-guns attached to both his arms.

The second stood a few feet shorter, a black, white and lavender paint job in this case. Blood-red optics and a face with a permanently foolish grin stuck on it. His wings suggested that his alternate mode was of an almost identical design to his twin's.

And, still without vehicle modes appropriate for Earth, both of them bore a great resemblance to Starscream.

Abruptly, a mental door in Megatron's brain slammed shut.

Quickly, the warlord nodded and turned his attention to Cyclonus, who stood staring at the four with interest.

"Cyclonus! I require you to supply our new comrades with Earthling alternate modes."

"Lord Megatron! I could do that," piped up Thrust. Megatron's optics flickered over to the tactician, who had stepped forward, saluting smartly. This gesture looked somewhat less impressive than it might have done, considering that the stealth jet looked like a walking cone of strawberry ice-cream.

Ah, so Thrust wanted to have some control over the situation, even if he hadn't known about it beforehand. How satisfactory it was to be able to see his motives so clearly, for once. Most of the time Thrust's speeches and star-readings left Megatron quietly wondering if he did have some ulterior motive after all, or whether he really did believe what he was saying, or whether he was just insane.

"Very well.", he said after a moment's consideration. Fine. If the tactician wanted to have his little victory, let him. It wouldn't do to humiliate him publicly just yet. He was, after all, one of the few bots Megatron was almost certain he could trust.

* * *

Miffed though Cyclonus was after Thrust taking on what he considered to be _his_ job, he went to see what alternate modes were acquired with interest. It was always good to know what kind of firepower you had on your side before going into battle, although personally, he couldn't care less as long as there was a lot of it.

And he wasn't all that disappointed.

He had been wary of approaching the new arrivals at first. The last two times a reinforcement had arrived, it had brought in Thrust, a weaselling invisible creep and Wheeljack, a psycho.

Not that he minded the black car all that much. Nuts he may have been but he wasn't unstable. He didn't cackle with exuberance during battle or set off bombs just to see what would happen. Cyclonus _was_ unstable, and having someone stable to balance the equation was a comforting experience. Even if that someone was completely insane.

The two seekers became Earthling jets, obviously.

"Hey, 'Warp! Lookie!" called the blue one, showing off his modified form. His voice was deep and low, yet still contained a hint of giddy exclamation.

"Niiiice," said the other, who was busy examining his extended wings, now wider and as black as coal. Both their cockpits had become smaller, with a set of smaller ray guns now attached to the purple one's arm. His voice was higher, but still contained that same hint of giddiness, similar to a hyperactive earthling child. Realizing that he may have found a soulmate, Cyclonus approached the two.

"Who're you?" he asked curiously as he stepped up to them, by way of greeting. He was met by a look and a flicker of interest from the taller one. The purple, however, appeared suddenly at his side, staring up at him with a grin.

"Hey, T.C., what do you know? Someone actually knows how to talk around here! And he's so welcoming, too!" he exclaimed. The other gave a snort and stared back at the helicopter.

"Name's Skywarp," continued the purple and black one, and gestured to his blue-white wingmate, "and this is Thundercracker."

"Cyclonus. You can fly?"

"Not only friendly, he's perceptive!" sniggered Skywarp.

"Now, now, be nice," chided Thundercracker. "Just because we've got wings doesn't mean we can fly. For all the poor guy knows, you might be a new type of winged artillery vehicle."

"Yeah, we can fly. Relax, he's just being himself," he added, seeing Cyclonus's darkening expression.

"Oooooh!" exclaimed the purple suddenly, inspecting the Decepticon's back. "You've got rotors! You're a…a…helicopter, right?"

"Huh? How'd you know what it's called?" said Cyclonus in surprise. Helicopters were mostly unheard of on Cybertron, where the air-modes were dominated by different varieties of jets.

"He's been reading up on Earth culture. For _fun,_" replied the blue one in disgust, throwing his comrade a dirty look. In turn, the seeker made a face at him, and continued his inspection of Cyclonus, the base, his new alternate mode and nearby equipment.

_Oh, great_, thought Cyclonus, although not without some joy_. Two more nut-jobs with a thousand screws loose. Why does everybody keep trying to take my job?_

* * *

Demolisher, meanwhile, was inspecting the other two.

"So, what do you turn into?" he asked directly.

The large, silver one, whose name he had learnt was 'Impact', turned and gave him a cold look. It was the sort of look a tyrannosaurus rex might give to a small leopard. Then, without saying a word, he transformed.

Demolisher goggled. Demolisher gaped. Demolisher screamed, "THRUST!"

The tactician emerged from the nearest tech-room, annoyed at having been so rudely summoned.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked impatiently. He followed Demolisher's line of vision to where Impact lay in his new vehicle mode, and smiled a frosty smile. So, his commander was going to start giving orders behind his back, was he? Well, Thrust would soon see about that…

"Is there a problem?" he questioned.

"Problem?! What the…why…He looks like Optimus Prime!" yelped Demolisher.

The large Decepticon had transformed into a massive silver and red fire-engine, although no previous fire-engine in the history of mankind has had so many guns attached to it. His shoulder-cannon now took the place of where a ladder was supposed to go in the more conventional vehicle.

"No, not exactly," said Thrust smoothly. "I chose his alternate mode to allow us more of an ability to blend in when pursuing Autobots down those human 'roads'. We are in need of some more powerful ground force, which currently consists of you and Megatron alone. Wheeljack can supply us with speed, but he is hardly a crushing force, now is he?"

As Demolisher gaped, Thrust turned his attention to the pale green femme who had just arrived, standing silently. Upon orders from Megatron, he had not supplied her with an alternate mode, his commander having said that the one she had already was "quite satisfactory".

"I doubt that Optimus Prime can do this," said the fire truck suddenly, with a growl in his voice. Without warning, he manoeuvred a quarter turn to the left, and aimed his shoulder cannon at a hole in the wall of the base. The gun hummed as it powered to life, before emitting a blast of green light. When Demolisher dared reactivate his optics, the hole in the wall was still there.

The large mound of moon rock which had been _outside_ the hole in the wall, however, was not.

"Uh…don't think so," he muttered, his voice waving a white flag. Trying to regain some of his previous verbal steam, he gestured to the one who stood watching, and asked, "Who's she?"

"Her name is Mayfly," replied Impact as he transformed, his cold voice now cold and smug. The femme nodded and held up her left arm. Terrified for a moment that he was about to be shot at again, Demolisher quickly realized that she was meaning for him to read the Cybertronian lettering upon the green screen which was built into her arm.

_MY NAME IS MAYFLY._

The words flickered just long enough for Demolisher to read them, before she dropped her arm and gave him a smart salute. Scratching his head, the tank turned to Impact and asked, "Hasn't she got a vocal monitor?"

If possible, the cold voice turned even colder.

"No."

Sensing, for once, that this was an area best left alone, Demolisher turned back to the one he now knew as Mayfly, asking, "What's your alternate mode?"

In response, she transformed, parts folding and limbs bending and breaking up to take new places. When the shift was complete, a communications module about Demolisher's height stood in her place, sharp, cutting-edge and complicated as a super computer. There was a screen upon it, beneath which were more buttons than the tank-bot could look at without getting a motherboard ache. Impact spoke once more.

"Mayfly turns into a communications terminal. She is capable of picking up signals from the other side of the galaxy. I imagine that's why Lord Megatron didn't want her to have a vehicle for an alternate mode."

"Cool. Can you play video games on her?"

He couldn't _help_ it. Being surrounded by mechs who constantly reminded him how much smarter they were got on Demolisher's nerves sometimes, leaving him with an infrequent but irresistible urge to irritate. And, dumb he may be but he would be slagged if this pompous newbie was going to sneer at him. To his immense pleasure, he was rewarded with a confused look from Impact, who obviously had never even heard the word 'video' before, never mind something as alien as 'game'.

_So, he does have more than one expression. That's nice to know_, thought Demolisher, smugly. It was good to know that he had not been completely defeated, even if he had needed to sink to the level of Cyclonus to do it.

Regarding the transformed Mayfly, Thrust made a 'hmmph' noise, increasingly irritated at how little he knew of the four that Megatron had sent for. Without saying a further word, the tactician turned and stalked out of the door.


	3. Stage

Stage

"Hey, 'Warp?"

Thundercracker sat in his new quarters, whilst his wingmate inspected them with typical child-like delight. Skywarp had always seemed to him an unlikely choice for the Decepticon Aerial Elite. Easily distracted and endlessly curious, the purple seeker was unable to remain calm and focused. You might almost believe there was a strange innocence about him, until you realized that he enjoyed battle just as much as he enjoyed everything else. More, in fact. A_ lot_ more.

"Yeah?" he replied. As per usual, he was successfully performing three tasks at once. In this case, holding a coherent conversation, fiddling with the computer and altering the position of the recharge bunk. Had Thundercracker asked him why, the reply would have almost certainly been 'because it looks nicer over here.'

"Have you noticed something?"

"Lots of things. Green tank-bot, really slow. Orange helicopter who looks okay. Green stealth-jet who I feel like punching in the face for some reason. A base with lots and lots of holes in it. What in particular?"

"The strange absence of our dear ex-wingmate."

"Hmm."

Skywarp turned to look at him, after moving the recharge platform three more inches to the right.

Thundercracker, who made a habit of noticing such things, could now see that the purple seeker's reformatted wings were not as similar to his as he had first thought. One of them was wider than the other and curved back slightly, whilst the other was slender and stuck out further than it should. It was only noticeable when Skywarp slipped into robot mode, as both wings straightened out and became identical when in jet mode. A minor point, but it bothered the blue seeker. His wings were both of equal size.

"_Innn-_teresting," mused Skywarp, in response to this new fact that Thundercracker had noticed. "Maybe Screamer got assigned to a different planet or something."

"Or maybe Megatron just shot him in the head after one whine too many."

"Nuh-uh. Starscream gets away with _everything_. Remember that time back on Iacon? When he tried to steal those chemicals for some energon experiments? And Megatron just put him in solitary confinement for three hours?"

"Yes…in a compression storage module…" pointed out the pink-faced seeker, slowly.

"Yeah, but imagine if we'd done it. He'd have sprinkled our remains over half the galaxy. Then again, I always did get the feeling that our leader doesn't like us very much. Wonder why?"

"Probably because of that time we set off that chain reaction in the weaponry warehouse. He never did forgive us for that."

"Happy days," sighed Skywarp, turning his attention once more to fiddling with the computer. Not to Thundercracker's great surprise, it threw off a violent array of sparks after a while, and Skywarp decided to leave it alone.

"I'm bored," he announced. "Wanna go flying?"

Thundecracker shrugged.

"Sure. Why not? I didn't hear anyone tell us not to, did you?"

"Nope."

"I see no way this can go wrong."

* * *

"GAAAAIIEEEEE!" 

Red Alert winced. Long Arm looked up with interest. And Scavenger let out a yell. This was because the medic's hand had slipped, the scalpel he was holding biting sharply in the warrior's side.

"Do I want to know what that was?" grunted Scavenger, gingerly extracting the tool from his leg. The Autobot was in the med-bay as a result of the last scrap with the Decepticons the day before. In this case, his injuries were courtesy of Cyclonus, who, unable to hit the bulldozer himself, had aimed a shot at the rocky overhang he was hiding beneath. It had taken the Autobots two hours to dig him out.

"No more than I do, I suspect," sighed Red Alert, as Long Arm to repairing the cut.

"It's Hoist," commented the Minicon confidently, speaking in beeps.

"How do you know that?"

"It's too low pitched for Hot Shot or Swindle. It's too loud for Sideswipe. Jetfire and Starscream are out flying. There is no one else on the base who shrieks like that."

Red Alert was impressed. "Hoist can shriek?"

"Sometimes. But only if he's really surprised about something. So…", Long Arm raised his optics to gaze at the ceiling in thought, "…I would imagine it involves a prank or another outburst from Rave. If it's a prank, it will involve either Hot Shot or Swindle. My guess would be Swindle."

"Not Hot Shot?"

"Hot Shot has not been in a prank mood lately. Haven't you noticed? And to make Hoist shriek like that, it would have to be a particularly vicious prank, which would be more Swindle's style than Hot Shot's."

Scavenger, of course, heard none of this. He was, however, aware of when Hoist appeared at the med bay door, a black look upon his faceplate. To Red Alert's interest and surprise, someone had taken the liberty of painting purple Decepticon insignias all over his outer shell.

"Swindle," growled the defiled Autobot, looking uncharacteristically murderous. "I was taking a nap and Starscream's creep of a partner did _this _to me."

Scavenger's smirk developed into a chuckle. Keeping a miraculously straight face, Red Alert said, "Interesting. So that's what he wanted the paint for."

Before Hoist could form a suitably scathing reply, the com-link upon the wall crackled to life.

"_All men to report the control room!_ _I repeat, all men to report immediately to the control room!"_ ordered the voice of Optimus Prime.

"What?" whined Hoist, although, were his response put into exact wording, it would contain a lot more 'a's. "But I haven't even had time to wash this lousy junk off! I can't going into battle looking like a crazed Decepticon fan!"

"Weeellll, you could paint little red crosses over all of 'em," suggested Scavenger, and Red Alert leant against the table and laughed.

They were the first to arrive, after he had quickly finished patching up Scavenger, a task that took only three more minutes. Admittedly, it was a rushed job, so the Autobot entered the control room with a slight limp. He was interested to note that, apart from Optimus and Blurr, they were the only ones yet there. Optimus was no surprise, and Blurr was always, always the first one to the control room. Always. No matter what. Were he to be killed in battle, most of the Autobots would not be surprised to see his leaking corpse appear in time for the next mission brief.

Hoist had wondered about this, until one night, when he had caught the blue mech busy performing a drill run from his quarters to the control room. To Hoist's amazement, he did this every morning, before the others emerged from recharge. When questioned about his strange choice of hobby, Blurr had only given him a frosty look, saying that 'it was every Autobot's duty to arrive on time and in peak condition.' Hoist had shivered, and had not raised the subject again.

The Autobot leader was about to open his mouth ask where the rest of his team was when he stopped, and stared for a long time at Hoist. After hesitating, he said carefully, "Hoist…are you trying to… tell me something by this?"

Sideswipe and Hot Shot arrived a minute later, earning a stern look each from Optimus. Jetfire and Starscream ran in two minutes after them, this time earning a stern look from both Optimus and Blurr. All four latecomers paused to gape at the painted Hoist, who glared savagely at them and turned to the wall, folding his arms. This was a bad move, greeted with further riotous laughter, as it revealed the crudely drawn caricature of Megatron on his back, complete with vampire-fangs hanging from his grinning face.

Optimus ran a steady look over his primary aerial force. All two of them. Jetfire was minus his faceguard again, which he still found strangely disturbing. Unlike the others, he had known Jetfire before he'd started using the thing, concealing his face and his feelings from the world. After assuming to know every nuance of his Vice Commander's personality, the unexpected change of heart came as a strange, new surprise. In some small, secret part of himself, Optimus almost wished that Jetfire hadn't discarded the mask. The Autobot Commander had gotten used to the inevitability of change over the years, but he did like some things to remain constant.

Brushing his unimportant thoughts aside, he swiftly noted that both of the winged transformers looked equally dishevelled and wind-beaten. Jetfire in particular was coated in dust, and his foot was dented. Prime's look became sterner.

"Have you two been flying too fast again?" he questioned. Recently, the Autobot leader had been concerned about the damage his second always returned to base with, after having been performing what he promised Optimus were 'simple training exercises'.

Jetfire looked guilty, Starscream looked blank. The ex-Decepticon was a great deal better at concealing his wrong-doings than his companion was. Optimus was quite sure that, had he been anybody else, the look he received would have been nearer to sheer defiance rather than blankness. At best, Starscream regarded him with a grudging amount of respect.

Giving up on extracting an answer from either flyer, the Autobot leader turned back to the rest of his team.

"Men, in the last fifteen minutes, the base's sensors have detected some new signals arriving on Earth. Some new Decepticon signals. Both of them have landed in Antarctica. As of yet, we are unaware as to who these new signals belong to, but we can only assume that Megatron has called in some new recruits."

Hoist gave a loud groan, as Hot Shot kicked the nearest wall. Scavenger nodded and Red Alert looked worried. Standing in the corner with Sureshock, Alexis's hazel eyes widened. Beside her, Carlos wailed, "Aww, man! Do these guys ever quit?!", in distress. Optimus continued.

"As I said, I do not know who these newcomers are, although it would be safe to assume that they have already acquired vehicle modes. Apart from just their energy signals, we were also able to catch a piece of conversation between them on the radio. I want everyone to listen to this; it may contain vital information," he warned, turning and flicking several buttons on the nearest console.

A large, matched set of speakers nearby crackled to life, and the kids winced at the static buzz which was projected over the room. Listening, Jetfire heard the sound of a deep, male voice, presumably belonging to one of the Decepticons.

"_Okay, Skywarp, you ready for verse three?"_

Beside him, Starscream gasped.

"_One…two…three!"_ said a higher, energetic sort of voice from the speaker. Optimus Prime's optics darkened in confusion. And, like a tidal wave crashing upon a peaceful beach, the words soared out of the speakers as both voices joined in unison.

"_**WEEEE'RE**_ _**devils and black sheep, we're really bad eggs,**_

**_Drink up, me hearties, _yo ho**

_**We kindle and char and inflame and ignite,**_

**_Drink up, me hearties, _yo ho**

_**We burn up the city, we're really a fright,**_

**_Drink up me hearties, _yo ho_!!!"_**

_**Yo**_ _**ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for mee**__- aaaah!!! Watch it, T.C., I'm flying here!"_

"_Sorry."_

There was a click as the recording finished. At that point, the two aerial Decepticons must have moved out of range or disappeared into cloud cover. The click was followed by pure silence, as if even the machinery could not believe what it was hearing.

"Y'know, I'm sure I've heard that song somewhere before…" said Billy, looking thoughtful, and was greeted by about twenty blank looks.

Jetfire glanced at his flying partner, and blinked. Starscream stood rigid, like a deer in the face of an oncoming train. His mouth was half-open, his orange optics wide and dim with shock. He looked as a man torn between fainting, leaping for the ceiling with a shriek and striking his head against the wall many, many times.

The perceptive Scavenger was the second to notice, and turned to give the seeker a questioning look.

"Nice tune," he grunted, breaking the silence and giving him a quizzical glance, which went totally ignored.

Jetfire was glad that Optimus was too busy to ask where they had gone flying. Starscream had suggested they try flying through a sandstorm, to practise their navigational skills. Yeah. Right. He didn't know if any skills had been practised, but it had been _fun. _Even the part where he had to pull off a hasty manoeuvre to avoid splattering upon the ground like a dropped kiwi fruit. Which was why his foot now sported a dent that he hoped Optimus had not noticed.

_Oww_… whined the inner voice.

_It's your own fault, loser,_ replied the mature, Second-In-Command part of his personality, and then stuck its tongue out at the inner voice.

Everyone had begun to recover by now, relieved that Scavenger had brought back a note of sanity to a world which had suddenly taken a dip into the surreal.

"Well, I don't know about you guys, but I picked a whole bunch of vital information in that," muttered Jetfire, and Sideswipe chuckled nervously.

Optimus, who found this less than amusing, now looked up at the sound of small metallic feet clanging on the floor as someone entered the room at a run. His fluid ran cold as a thickly accented voice rang out, bloodthirsty mania lacing every word.

"All right! Where's the miserable blighters, hmm? Let's go give 'em a taste 'o cold steel!"

_Oh, joy. The latest addition to my merry little band._

Out loud, the large transformer called upon his infinite supply of patience and said, "Rave, we are not under attack. Please put the axe down."

Privately, Optimus wondered at the newest Minicon's ability to communicate freely with the larger transformers, not talking in the strange beeping sounds of Jolt or Sparkplug. He could only assume that his creator must have made an error, as giving voices to the little tools had been illegal on Cybertron.

He returned his mind to the glorious present.

The red and green Minicon looked disappointed, before reluctantly lowering his prized possession. Since his arrival, Rave had been equipped with an alternate mode of a small tractor, which was fine with him, seeing as he barely ever bothered to transform. Since its arrival, the axe had also been through some upgrades, and now sported several nasty-looking spikes fitted down the handle. There was only just enough room for Rave to grip it in both hands. This idea might have sprung from Carlos, who had, for some unknown reason, told the boisterous Minicon stories of the ancient humans, who placed the heads of their enemies on spikes.

When he had discovered Rave busy altering his weapon whilst grinning demonically, Optimus had been sorely tempted to place Carlos in a holding cell and incinerate the key.

"Red Alert," he said, turning to the head technician, "can you pinpoint where these new arrivals are at this moment?"

Red Alert nodded, and a hologram of the Earth appeared in venomous green, zooming in on the continent which clung to the bottom of it like a monstrous spider. On it were two red dots, moving across the map. Optimus nodded, and fell silent, deep in thought. He reached a decision, and spoke once more to his men.

"I would like Jetfire, Scavenger, Hot Shot, Red Alert and Starscream to head out, in case a Minicon has been detected. Take the Star Sabre with you. Jetfire, you're in charge. If you should encounter an ambush, call for backup."

"But Optimus, what if it's a diversion?" asked Hoist, irritated that he had been chosen to be left behind. The short Autobot was feeling just a tad tetchy, which was probably due to the fact that Jolt and Sideswipe kept glancing at his back and sniggering. He was also unable to see why two Decepticons should be sent alone to find and retrieve a Minicon. If it were a trick, it meant that the five other Decepticons and their Minicons would be able to launch an attack on the base as the Autobots divided themselves. More than just five, if Megatron had brought in reinforcements.

_Darn 'Cons…they're like _weeds_, no matter what you do, there's always more of 'em…_

"I've considered that, Hoist, thank you. It may well be just a diversion tactic, especially seeing as we haven't yet picked up the signal of a panel being activated. That is why I will be remaining at the base with you, Sideswipe and Blurr."

Rave made a rather obvious coughing noise.

"And Rave, of course," said Optimus, diplomatically.

Half the Minicons in the room made rather obvious coughing noises.

"And the rest of you. I would like the Skyboom Shield to remain here, in case Megatron should decide to attack with the Requiem Blaster again."

Alexis gave a polite, yet still blatantly obvious, coughing noise.

"Yes, and the kids as well.", sighed Optimus. Laserbeak flapped upwards and landed upon the Autobot leader's head, giving an indignant and very obvious beep.

"No, Laserbeak. Not you. You will be accompanying Jetfire, so that we can keep an eye on things. Alright?"

There was a faint note of strain in Optimus's voice, so Sparkplug decided not to push it.

Sideswipe was troubled. He was not surprised that he had been elected to remain at the base, considering that he was good with computers and ship repair, and lousy with everything else. The little incident two days ago when he had accidentally shot his own foot could not have helped. But having Hot Shot go into battle without when he was feeling depressed worried the young bot. He was a good judge of his partner's moods, and knew by now that when Hot Shot was unhappy, he had a tendency to do very, very stupid things.

Red Alert was confused. It made little sense for Optimus to choose him for a mission, the official Guardian Of The Base And All-Around Calm Guy. Oh…wait. Yes. That made sense. Hot Shot and Starscream would be going, and Jetfire would hardly be the voice of reason if a fight broke out between the official Loud-Mouthed Hot-Head and the official Louder-Mouthed Nut With A Sword. The medic could already foresee hours spent restraining his beloved comrades, hopefully without the use of physical violence. What mind-boggling _fun_.

Still, at least it was an excuse to be out of the base. Unlike Hot Shot, Red Alert could not declare a sudden bout of extreme cabin fever and drive off into the sunset. Being responsible had earned him a reputation he was quite proud of, and he had no desire to ruin it with an irrational urge to be alone for a while. Getting out of the base which he knew every inch of by now would be a welcome relief, even if it did mean to a trip to a frozen land with those two. Maybe he would have the opportunity to divulge what was troubling Hot Shot.

Optimus glanced at Hot Shot, who stood shaking his head slowly after the serenade from the radio. Yes; selecting him had been a good idea. Maybe Red Alert could discover what was wrong with him. And something was quite obviously wrong. He hadn't bothered to say anything during the whole brief. It was a rare day when Hot Shot remained silent for more than three minutes.

"Autobots, roll out!"

As the other three began heading for the warp room, Jetfire looked at Starscream with worry plain on his face. The seeker had not yet lost the dazed expression and his mouth still hung partly open in horror. The shuttle thought quickly, before raising a hand and waving it before his optics. When this provoked no reaction, he let it fall, even more worried.

"Starscream…?" he attempted, nervously.

"Hey, Screamer, were you thinking of joining us?" muttered Hot Shot, stalking towards the door.

The words would have normally produced an equally terse reply, but in this case they seemed to snap the red jet from his motionless state. He blinked twice, and abruptly turned on his heel, striding out the door.

"Let's go," was all he said to the confused Jetfire, who groaned in exasperation before following.

* * *

The warp room made Starscream's motherboard ache. 

It wasn't the same as the warp gate at the Decepticon headquarters, which was faster, and didn't involve a display of colourful lights just before you reached your destination. It always succeeded in leaving him feeling unbalanced (which he hated), and disorientated (which he hated even more).

However, right now, he had bigger problems to deal with than the minor irritation of warping. Much, much bigger problems.

_I'll bet he did it on purpose_, the seeker decided, glaring at nothing. _He chose _them _just to annoy me, the miserable, boorish piece of scrap. And I'm sure they haven't found a Minicon. Probably just causing trouble, as usual. Idiots._

Jetfire stood beside his flying partner, noting the glare. On his shoulder perched Swindle, who often considered Starscream little more than a bad-tempered method of transport. He was an intelligent mech, though, and knew when it was best not to press the seeker for answers.

Sometimes, Jetfire wished he could have a friendlier relationship with his Minicon partner. But Commettor, by some cruel twist of fate, sometimes seemed to be the miniature equivalent of Blurr, caring simply and solely for doing his job. This left the Minicon with almost no sense of humour and little time for Jetfire's frivolities.

He had once made the mistake of giving an acidic comment on the negative influence that "the Decepticon traitor" was having on Jetfire, and Swindle had dealt him a shattered optic and an arm that took a week to repair. Since then, Commettor had offered no further opinions on the matter, although he viewed the white shuttle with a sort of thinly veiled disgust, and spent most of his time pretending his partner did not exist. And Jetfire knew full well that Starscream would like very much to step on the dark-coloured Minicon for it. It was all quite disheartening.

Quietly, so as not to be heard by the others, he said, "What is it that you know that you're not telling me?"

The room gave a low-pitched hum as the warp-mechanism powered up.

"Tell you later," lied Starscream, and they disappeared in a flash of coloured lights.

* * *

It was a world of white. 

The sun touched the whiteness with a strange, milky light. No movement, no colour, nothing but the blanket of white and an all-consuming cold. On this particular day, it was completely silent.

No. Not completely.

Two identical hums of jet engines broke the quiet. Looking up, a person would have been surprised to see two fast-moving flashes of light, which became two dots of colour against the grey-white sky. These in turn became two fighter jets, swooping and diving over the snow. One of them, the purple one, broke away from the other and plunged towards the ground. Just before he seemed doomed to crash into the icy ground, the jet pulled up, shooting back into the air at an incredible speed. Listening, a person would have heard the sound of exultant laughter.

Thundercracker would have shaken his head at his brother's antics, had he been able to. Instead, he settled for saying, "Well, I hope you _enjoyed_ your near-demise, you crazy waste of spare parts."

Skywarp giggled, and swooped low again.

It was beautiful. It was _cold_. Skywarp could sense it, although the temperature was beyond his ability to feel. But he could feel the way his sensors became aware of it, aware of the damage it could silently do to his fuel lines and internal mechanisms. Automatically, his metallic body began using up his energy supply faster, providing warmth to his limbs, ensuring that his joints did not freeze up, ensuring that the cold would not create unpleasant cracks upon his face and hands. Keeping his spark box warm and his circuits active. In short, keeping him online.

A human without appropriate clothing and supplies would not last three hours in the beautiful, barren landscape. Not against the faint yet freezing breeze and the killing cold. Skywarp, who had an interest in organics, knew this, and was thankful he wasn't a fleshy.

"Hey, T.C., this is just like Planet Lessili Six D, remember? Except the snow there was pink."

"Yeah. This is prettier."

"…Thundercracker?"

"Yep?"

"You don't think we should have asked Thrust or someone before we left, do ya?"

"Nah. We're just flying. What's the worst that could happen?"

Satisfied, the black and purple jet spun in the air and flew to land on the nearest glacier, the dim sunlight sparkling off his onyx-coloured wings. Thundercracker paused briefly to admire the deadly landscape, and ducked downwards to follow his companion.


	4. Drainage

Drainage

Megatron was calm. Megatron was controlled. Megatron was, above all, quiet.

"Say. That. Again," he said softly. Anyone standing close to him would have heard the undertone of a hiss.

Thrust was toast.

All the Decepticons assembled backed away just a little at his reaction to the news. All except the green tactician, who stood rigid before the commander, looking like a small rodent stuck in the mud before a huge, fanged python.

"Eh-hem…" he began, an unusual note of nervousness in his voice. "Lord Megatron, it seems that two of our latest recruits have left the base. Our scanners indicate that they are currently in the vicinity of Earth."

Megatron arched his fingers, and said 'Why?', very quietly. In the corner of the room, Demolisher winced, preparing himself for the carnage. Thrust weighed up his chances of making it out the door before the Decepticon leader beat him to death with his own wings.

_If I started running **right now**, I might even get halfway before he rips me apart. On the other hand, if I fall to my knees and start grovelling this instant, I might escape with only a few missing limbs. Decisions, decisions._

"It...it appears, sir, that no one mentioned to them that going to Earth without express permission is not allowed, sir. In - in fact, sir…"

The magical fairy of inspiration flew down and planted a kiss on the tactician's head. His optics brightened, and his gaze flickered across the room feverishly. If he was going to die, he was taking someone with him…

"In fact," he said, a note of sudden viciousness entering his voice, "I seem to recall that Cyclonus was meant to brief them about the base rules, sir."

Wheeljack smothered a groan. Half-asleep in a corner, Cyclonus made a strangled noise as he shot violently out of stasis, snapping his head towards Thrust so quickly it was a wonder he did not get whiplash.

"What?! That's wrong! You didn't tell me to do that! That's your job, it wasn't my fault, sir! I-I thought Demolisher was going to do it!" sputtered the helicopter in desperation. Sure, it was a rotten thing to do, and Demolisher didn't deserve it. But at this point, Cyclonus's conscience was being throttled into silence by his will to live.

Demolisher went instantly to pieces, unable to cope with being torn between fury, indignation and pure terror.

"I…uh…um…sir, it….I…it was…uh…"

Really, Wheeljack almost felt sorry for the green tank-bot. One thing Demolisher was incapable of doing was smooth-talking his way out of potentially lethal situations. He stuttered, he bungled, he always looked as guilty as hell, and he couldn't lie to save his life. It was a crippling quality in a Decepticon, but sadly, everything about Demolisher always conveyed the truth.

"Demolisher," said Megatron, in the same soft voice, "be quiet."

He was quiet. His jaw clammed shut and he stared up at the throne in mute despair.

Megatron would have liked very much to kill them all, and then do a merry dance on their smoking shells. But most of all, he wanted to kill Thrust. Now. Instantly. His fingers twitched with the desire to see a pile of ash in place of the tactician. Instead, he balled them all into two mighty fists and stood up. Seeing Megatron stand up was always an impressive sight, but the power of restrained anger made him tower over all assembled. He pointed one finger at Cyclonus, and one at Wheeljack.

"You two are ordered to head down to Earth and provide our wayward flyers with backup, if it is required. Bring them back, preferably each in one piece. Take our communications officer with you," -and here he pointed at Mayfly, who stood at the back beside the large Impact - "I want to remain in touch, seeing as you are all totally incapable of doing anything right without my assistance. I will deal with the punishments upon your return."

Watching the three exit the room, Megatron turned his attention back to Thrust.

"And as for you…" he began, a nasty glint in his optics.

* * *

Sideways was positively wriggling with delight. Oh, it was just too perfect. They were all playing directly into his hands and he hadn't even done anything yet!

Two crimson globes stared down upon a vast land of ice. Already, he could see the stage being set. It didn't truly matter where they were when his device was activated, but what fun it would be to see members of both factions caught in the same place, helpless. What would they do then, he wondered? Probably try to kill each other in a snow ball fight. They'd be able to do little else, he thought with an unseen smirk.

Communication, warping, even fighting would be barely within the realm of their capabilities. Power-linking would be out of the question. If his machine worked as well as he planned it to, they all might even be offline within five hours. Even if they weren't, watching them behave like helpless rodents would be a rare bit of entertainment.

Yes…any minute now…

* * *

Red Alert warped in, slipped on the snow, fell over and got a mouth full of freezing, chunky liquid.

_Oh, lovely_, he thought, although it was more in resignation than sarcasm.

"Smooth, Red," sniggered Hot Shot, helping the older warrior to his feet.

Brushing himself off, Red Alert inspected the yellow bot out the side of his optic band, as the others finished warping in behind him. Already, his therapist's mind was at work, trying to give him some idea of what was bothering his young companion. As far as he recalled, the last time Hot Shot had been like this, he had mentioned to the medic something about nightmares. Nightmares about…ah. So that was it.

Hmm. This was going to be tricky. Red Alert never knew exactly how to council Hot Shot on the matter of Wheeljack. Though normally so good at judging these things, he couldn't quite understand whether Hot Shot's feelings were born of anger or grief. And the worst part was, as always, he was fully capable of seeing both sides of the story. One mech felt betrayed and discarded, the other felt betrayed and hurt. It was a stupid, stupid situation, and yet it was put down as just another of the tragedies of war. And he had no idea what to do about it.

However, he would try to get Hot Shot to talk to him, if only because the yellow bot needed to talk to someone. If he just kept it bottled inside, sooner or later he would explode.

"Oh, well, this is just swell," muttered Scavenger, who was buried up to his knees in soft snow.

"C'mon guys, we'd better get going," said Jetfire, checking his sensitive radar. "They're about half a mile west of us. Whoever they are," he added, shooting Starscream a look.

They had been moving for barely three minutes when Scavenger saw three irregular splotches of colour appear in the distance.

"Look. Something just warped in over there. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have company."

"Decepticons," growled Hot Shot.

And, indeed, he was right.

* * *

"Aww, crud," whined Cyclonus, watching the five dots start to head towards them on a pair of binoculars. Demolisher had been reluctant to hand them over, as the last eight pairs the berserker had gotten his hands on had mysteriously disappeared.

"And more good news," murmured Wheeljack, scanning the opposite horizon carefully, "I think we've located the new guys. Up there. Wonder what they think they're doing?"

On his arm, Windsheer was carefully adjusting a radar device.

"And I'd gotten so used to thinking of _you_ as the new guy," sighed Cyclonus, then giggled for no apparent reason other than the sheer joy of being annoying. Crumplezone had chosen to stay behind at the base. Wheeljack wished that he could have done the same. Missions with Cyclonus were okay, as long he stood away from the exploding rocks and flying debris, but cold was something the black car did not like. Cold was lousy. Cold made his scar hurt with a dull, itching pain that refused to leave him alone.

And he hated snow. He had encountered it on other planets before, and snow always seemed to be smothering him.

A mechanical beep distracted Wheeljack, and he turned to find Mayfly standing with her arm outstretched, waiting for him to read the green lettering on the screen. Wheeljack did so with reluctance. Communicating with someone through a screen was something he found just a little unnerving for some reason.

_I CAN CONTACT THE SEEKERS. _

"Oh. Uh…good," muttered Wheeljack. "Tell them to meet us down here. We're going to need reinforcements. Meanwhile, we'll start heading towards them."

This was greeted by a predicable groan of protest from Cyclonus. The ex-Autobot felt his patience being worn away, inch by inch, as Mayfly transformed and relayed the message to the seekers.

"But we can do it alone!_ C'mon_, there's only _five _of 'em, you can take one, she can take one and I'll take the other three! Aw, please 'Jack, just a little while?"

Firmly ignoring all of the copter-bot's pleas, Wheeljack started heading towards the two flying specks. Hopefully, they would reach them before the Autobots did.

* * *

Travelling over the icy ground was difficult, so neither factions were capable of charging at each other, as they would have preferred. Scavenger ploughed away some of the worst of it, before Hot Shot decided that it wasn't worth waiting. He rushed ahead, skidded badly, and almost flipped over. As Red Alert chided him, Scavenger transformed and suggested that it would be faster to simply walk. Red Alert agreed. Hot Shot grumbled and stated that he was faster than anybody walking, no matter what the terrain was like. Then he went too fast and skidded again.

Jetfire and Starscream flew in unacknowledged formation, the red jet always flying a little higher than the shuttle. As they drew closer to the Decepticons, Jetfire pondered his partner's odd behaviour.

Since the 'Megatron incident' (as he called it) of a few weeks ago, Starscream had been strangely subdued. Not quite subdued enough to be called quiet, but subdued enough to make Jetfire worry. They had gone into battle twice since then, and both Megatron and Starscream had chosen the tactic of completely ignoring each other. They didn't shout at each other, they didn't fire on each other, unless one was in the other's way. They didn't even look at each other, and if their optics did happen to meet, they would just stare through each other as though looking through a window. Somehow, Jetfire would have been happier if Starscream had shouted and raved and ranted about his former commander. But whenever questioned on the subject, his face would go blank in a way that made Jetfire want to either shake him or shiver.

The tall Vice Commander felt that he was no good with emotions. His remedy for feeling down was to go shoot something on the target range and then go flying. Emotions were Red Alert's specialty, not his.

But Starscream was his speciality, not Red Alert's.

He knew by now that the seeker trusted him, far more than he did anyone else. Certainly, he understood Starscream better than any of the other Autobots, although this was hardly a tremendous achievement. The only person who truly understood Starscream was Starscream himself, and at the end of the day, probably not even him.

Apart from all that, the seeker was keeping secrets from him, and he loathed secrets. Secrets were always bad. And so Jetfire worried. Joked, led, fought and worried.

By now, the three specks were clearly distinguishable as Cyclonus, Wheeljack and some unknown arrival. In the sky, Jetfire could see the two flyers speeding towards them. He made his decision quickly. Maybe too quickly. So what?

"Alright men, Scavenger, Red Alert and Hot Shot, you head for Cyclonus and the other two. Starscream and I'll take on the ones in the air. Contact me immediately if you detect a new Minicon somewhere."

They peeled away from the others, soaring into the dove-coloured sky. As clean as clockwork, the opposite two rose to meet them.

_Hmm…they look familiar…_ thought Jetfire.

* * *

Wheeljack readied his gun.

His face, Cyclonus noted, had taken on the rock-hard look it always wore whenever battle was nigh. His optics would narrow and brighten, his mouth would set into a half-snarl. A human would have compared the dark mech to a wolf with the scent of blood in its nose. Cyclonus was not a human, and just thought: _Yep. Insane._

It was just the tiniest bit disturbing, the amount of time Wheeljack spent practising with that thing, in his opinion. The Decepticon base had no shooting range, so holograms and rocks were used for target practise. Cyclonus knew for a fact that every hour the black and gold Decepticon did not spend in his lab, he spent out on the surface, shooting away at rocks. By now, he was very good indeed. And yet, he never seem to gain any pleasure from improving his skills, as Cyclonus and Demolisher did. Never gloating over a smooth shot or an impressive manoeuvre, never grinning or smiling or showing any sense of achievement. He simply pushed himself to do better, as though he had no choice in the matter.

Yep. _Completely_ insane.

They had stopped behind a mound of snow slightly larger than all the other mounds lying around. Great cover it was not, but the only other variations in the landscape were the cliffs in the distance and the occasional cracks in the surface of the land that could stretch to over fifty feet long. The copter-bot was very careful to avoid those; experience had taught him that steep, rocky crevices were not his friends.

"Heh-heh…roasted Autobots, with a side of fries…" he murmured to himself, for no particular reason. It always felt good to have something to say.

Cyclonus readied his arm-lasers with a grin on his face. In a small part of his mind, he wondered whether or not med-boy would be with them this time. Probably not. He probably spent most of his time guarding those five annoying squishy things.

Mayfly reached down and withdrew both her handguns, holding them at the ready. Upon Wheeljack's orders, she had sent a message to Megatron, informing him of their current situation.

Fifty metres away, Hot Shot stopped and transformed, swiftly followed by the other two. Jetfire had not seen the need to call Optimus for backup yet, which was fine with him. He felt like a challenge. His pale face was a picture of restrained anger, and his grip tightened upon his pistol.

Half a dozen trigger-fingers tensed as the freezing breeze died away, leaving only a faintly sinister silence.

* * *

_It was time. _

Laughing, Sideways swept through his creation, activating it. It was a task that took over three minutes. He had carefully specified the unique energy signatures of every Autobot and Decepticon on Earth and the moon. His creation would target them all, in a matter of minutes.

The creature took one last look at the state of them all. There was Optimus Prime, monitoring the progress of his Vice Commander. There was Hot Shot, preparing to charge into battle. There was Cyclonus, standing ready to fight upon the frozen ground. There was Megatron in his base, increasingly angry as the situation on Earth became worse with the arrival of the Autobots.

_You're about to become quite a bit angrier, commander_, he thought, and his eyes glowed like red flame as he chuckled.

_Yesss_…_it was time._

Typing in one last code, Sideways brought the machine to life.

* * *

On Earth, Optimus Prime heard a sound, a single note ringing in his audio receptors. Two seconds later it came, hitting him like a blow from a club. He gasped as it swept through his body, feeling as an icy shower would to a human. A monstrous wave of dizziness struck him, and the entire world went briefly out of focus.

Alexis stifled a scream as she watched the Autobot leader fall to his knees.

* * *

Jetfire was headed in a beeline for the blue seeker on the left when he felt it. All his carefully programmed sensor fields were thrown completely out of balance, the energy required simply to keep him in the air being drained away. He didn't drop immediately but fell off course, swooping down towards the ground.

"What the- what's happening?!" he yelled, and then groaned as his energy levels wavered again. The white shuttle could feel them start to plummet, his engines dying down to a soft purr.

Starscream felt it only a second after his partner, and he gave a screech of alarm and fear as he glided down towards the ground, unable to stop himself. To his horror, he saw Jetfire in the same predicament, heading for the ground much too quickly.

* * *

Cyclonus watched in confusion as Wheeljack doubled over, dropping his gun onto the snow. A moment later, he did the same as his strength seemed to vanish from his body.

He groaned, quite sure that death was near. It wasn't that he particularly feared death, but this was a really _stupid_ way to die. Keeling over on some crummy planet, his energy reserves drained away by something he couldn't even see? Really, really stupid. Behind him, he heard a thud as Mayfly hit the ground and curled into a foetal position.

"Red Alert, what's going on?" choked Hot Shot, slumping forward.

The medic did not respond, as he was too busy wondering this himself. That, and trying not to collapse.

His energy was draining away. That he knew. How, he had no idea.

Within the midst of his confusion and fear, somewhere deep within Red Alert's soul, a small fragment of memory twitched. He gasped, not only from the sudden weakness and disorientation. No. It wasn't possible.

* * *

Megatron grimaced in his throne, his talon-like hands carving deep grooves into the sides. He shook his head, trying to escape the horrible, helpless feeling. The light in his optics dimmed down, and he experienced a tiny moment of sheer terror as he felt his energy levels drop far below the optimum point. It this continued to happen, he would be offline in a matter of seconds. A minute more and his body would shut down permanently only his spark remaining still strong in an useless, dead shell.

Thankfully, it did not come to that. The feeling left him slowly, and he cautiously reactivated his optics.

His emergency energy reserves came to his aide, stabilising his body. Not completely, but just enough to allow movement. The Decepticon leader attempted to stand up, horrified by the wave of weakness that swept through him. His shell felt as though it had spent the last eighteen hours fighting off a dozen of Optimus Prime. This was bad.

Megatron checked his energy levels. He had enough left in reserve to keep him stable for the next six hours. After that, he was doomed. His body, like all transformers, generated its own energy. If the generator failed, it was usually because of a loss of mech fluid or a lack of energon, and the emergency reserves would be activated.

Only then did Megatron set himself to the task of wondering who was behind all this.

He was low on neither mech fluid nor energon. Someone was responsible for his current weakness. Someone very clever indeed.

Hmm. Well, that at least eliminated the possibility of it being any of his men. The only one who might be capable of that level of engineering was Wheeljack, and he was one of the few people Megatron actually trusted.

So. An Autobot trick, perhaps? Unlikely. Such sneaky operations were not their style, and besides, the ability to suppress a mech's energy was Decepticon technology. Megatron himself had set his scientists to the task years ago, in an plan to use it against the Autobots. Sneaky operations were most definitely _his _style.

A minor glitch in his systems? No. Megatron knew his body too well to allow that to happen without his knowledge. A major glitch in his systems? He'd be dead by now, and his emergency reserves wouldn't be functioning. A human invention, somehow effecting him all the way from Earth? Hah.

Having eliminated all other possibilities, Megatron's mind arrived at the final, most likely conclusion, and drew a big red circle around it.

"Sideways…" growled the tyrant.

* * *

The wind screamed by as Jetfire plunged downwards. Disorientation had thrown him drastically off course, and he was headed directly for the icy peaks in the distance. 'The distance', strangely, didn't look as distant as it had before. It looked quite near, and very spiky.

He tried to gain control over his failing systems, but even that but cost him too much strength. All Jetfire could do was pray that his emergency reserves were activated soon enough, before he became a mushy paste on the side of the mountain. The shuttle did not know what was happening, but it would be safe to say that he did not like it. Not at all.

_Okay Jets, you can do this, get a grip! You've survived worse than this, come on, you can do this. Turn right, turn right, TURN RIGHT you idiot!_

Thirty seconds before imminent splattering, he felt his reserves light up. Thanking Primus and all the other deities he could name, Jetfire veered sharply to the right, missing a sharp overhang of icy rock. Still too weak to remain in the air, but he was at least out of the terminal speed area.

"Jetfire, slow down!" Starscream's voice rasped over the com-link, tight with panic.

Gulping, the shuttle realized that he was still going down too quickly to avoid a crash. White mounds of freezing snow rose up before him, and he shut off his optic sensors at the last minute, bracing himself for impact.

It could have been worse. He hit the ground whilst almost parallel to it, and kept going. His sensitive wings screamed in pain as they were raked along the icy ground. Bits of white paint were scraped off, invisible against the snow. He winced, horrified at the thought of what all this was doing to his gleaming finish. Unlike most flyers, he cared about his appearance, and was particularly proud of his paint job.

Eventually he came to a stop, although it took him a moment to realize it. The world was spinning, not only from his sudden weakness. He transformed and shook his head to clear it. The world stopped spinning, although the weakness remained.

He heard the crunch of a footstep behind him and turned, just as a dark fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling back with an 'oof.' Dazed, he looked up to see Starscream towering over him, fingers curled and a furious look upon his face.

"Filthy _moron_!" he snarled, looking ready to hit him again. "Do you _enjoy_ trying to get yourself killed?!"

Then he pounced upon the shuttle and squeezed him tight, pressing him even further into the snow. Jetfire knew the seeker well enough by now not to be surprised by abrupt mood changes or unexpected displays of affection. Just as quickly, Starscream released him and got back to his feet, quickly checking the shuttle for damage before holding out his hand and helping him to his feet.

"I have absolutely no idea what's going on," declared Jetfire, "so I'm going to consult my nearest assistant. Starscream, what the krell is going on?!"

"No idea. Does that help? Are your energy levels down?"

The Air Defence team had come to stand by Starscream's feet. They seemed far less affected than either of the two taller bots, although Runway was walking with a slight limp, supported by Sonar.

"Yeah, I'm running on emergency reserves. Reckon I've got about five hours left. Maybe less."

"Less," muttered Starscream, looking at the sky with a frown. "The cold temperature forces our bodies to use up more energy just to keep us functioning. If we stay here, you've probably got four hours."

"Goody. And this started out as such a charming day."

"It may be a Decepticon trick." As he said it, Starscream frowned. Even after three months now, he still found it hard to say the word 'Decepticons' without thinking 'us.'

"I don't think so. Those other two seekers also went down. By the way, you were going to tell me something about th-…"

"Let's get going," Starscream cut him off quickly. "The longer we stand here the less energy we have to run on. We need to get back to the others or find shelter, quickly. Maybe they can warp us back to the base."

Annoyed at having his questions deflected again, Jetfire spotted the others in the distance, dark specks standing helpless in a world of winter. Further off, he could see the other Decepticons, also not moving.

_Well, at least they're not shooting at each other yet_, he thought with a sigh. A creeping feeling of foreboding came over him as he realized that this may simply be because whatever had drained their energy levels had also rendered their guns useless.

_Swell._


	5. Ceasefire

* * *

Ceasefire

Growling, Demolisher picked himself off the floor.

_If this has anything to do with Cyclonus I'm gonna stuff him into a crater. Then I'm gonna stuff the crater with dynamite. Then I'm gonna find the biggest gun…_

Checking his internal computer, he found his main energy reserves almost completely empty. This made no sense whatsoever, so he didn't waste time thinking about it. If it wasn't something malfunctioning in his body, then it was something else. And if it was something else, chances were it hadn't affected only him.

As always, his first thoughts were for his commander. His energy had probably been depleted by this unseen source too, but he would at least have some idea what to do about it. So. To Megatron. To Demolisher's great annoyance and further confusion, his com-link was not working.

Hearing an unfamiliar groan, the tank-bot turned, and gasped at the sight of Impact, bracing himself against the wall for support. For a fleeting moment, Demolisher considered leaving him there, or perhaps giving him a gentle kick as he passed by. The temptation faded quickly, however, and he moved to aide his new comrade.

"It would, I expect, be too much too hope that _you_ would know what is going on?" grunted the immense silver Decepticon, as he struggled to his feet.

"Good guess," muttered Demolisher, before continuing. "We'd better get to the throne room."

Impact looked as though he would have liked to argue this point, but decided against it. However puny, insignificant and utterly mindless the smaller bot was, he had a point. Megatron might be in danger, which meant that they might be in danger. Reluctantly, he gave a nod, and followed Demolisher down the winding passageways.

* * *

"You've been trying that for the last hour, it is _never_ going to work." 

Wheeljack considered the relative merits of just giving up and throwing the com-link at Cyclonus's head. Either that or just stuffing it down his mouth, rendering him unable to speak for once. The idea was attractive.

"It has only been an hour in your little world, Cyc," he muttered, trying to make sense out of the mess of wires before him. "In that place known to some of us as 'reality,' I've been working for fifteen minutes. Which is more than you've been doing."

Cyclonus sighed and considered the relative merits of taking a nap. Probably better not, he decided, looking at Wheeljack's futile efforts to restore their communication devices. The dark mech had been looking more and more tense ever since discovering that neither their guns nor their radio links to the base were working. Worst of all, they couldn't warp out. Whatever had happened to them must have also happened to the warp gate.

_So, let's recap,_ thought Cyclonus. _We're stranded a million miles north of nowhere, with only one mute femme and two crazy seekers for help. We cannot contact the base. We cannot get back to the base. We've got not supplies and our guns don't work. We have maybe five hours left before we run out of energy completely and go offline in this boring, freezing version of the Pit. Hmm…how could it be worse?_

"They're still just talking," piped up Skywarp, who was now holding the binoculars.

_Oh, yeah. The Autobots are here too._

The Autobots, in fact, had made no further moves to confront them yet. Wheeljack was convinced, in his strangely paranoid way, that this was because they were planning an attack whilst the Decepticons weren't looking. That was why Skywarp and Mayfly were now keeping watch on them from behind the mound of snow, occasionally turning back to report that no, they still hadn't moved yet.

In the meantime, Wheeljack was furiously trying to repair their failed equipment. Repair work was child's play to the ex-Autobot, so it was immensely frustrating to find that he was unable to repair something as simple as a com-link. The silent Mayfly had reported that even her radio signals were unable to reach the base, due to her dwindled energy level.

Idly, Cyclonus watched the dark mech's patience become shorter and shorter, his optics continuously glancing over to where the Autobots stood. His trigger finger started to twitch and Cyclonus grinned.

_Three…two…one…_

"Aaaargh!" said Wheeljack, throwing the broken com-link onto the snow. "It's hopeless!"

"Any new plans, fearless leader?" queried the copter-bot cheerfully, and ducked to avoid a swipe.

"Alright, fine," sighed Wheeljack, getting control of himself. "Um…let's see…you two! Get here, now!"

Skywarp and Thundercracker scrambled to their feet, and stared owlishly at him.

"I want both of you to get down there and scout out the territory. Hide, spy, see if you can get any ideas on what they're planning. Don't be seen, don't be heard, try not to do anything stupid. Yell if you get into trouble, but _don't_ get into trouble, because if you do get into trouble I will be very angry and then you will be in even worse trouble. Understand?"

Skywarp nodded quickly and Thundercracker performed a sweeping bow. Cyclonus concealed a snigger and Wheeljack nodded.

"Good. Don't fly, you'll use up energy faster if you do. Stay low to the ground and try to stick to the rocks."

Black rocks like crumbs from a chocolate cookie dotted the landscape, mostly small but some big enough for a transformer to hide behind. Glad to have his precious binoculars back, Cyclonus raised them to his grass-green optics and watched as the seekers advanced.

* * *

"You cannot be serious," said Starscream quietly. 

He was the first to respond. All the others just stared, their mouths hanging open. Jetfire winced, but didn't squirm. Sometimes, basic dignity was important. Not often, but sometimes. Like when you're busy suggesting suicidal plans.

"Okay, I know nobody likes this idea but-…"

"Don't like it?!" said Hot Shot with a hollow, sick-sounding laugh. "Oh no, Jets, it's a cool idea. It's a brilliant idea! Team up with the 'Cons, of course! Why didn't I think of that? It's so simple, and we've been waging a war against them for four million years now! I wonder why no one suggested it before? You- Ow!"

There was a clang as Scavenger dealt Hot Shot a cuff on the back of his head.

"Show some respect, kid," growled the older Autobot, rubbing his hand. Hot Shot grumbled and winced but finally shut up.

"Jetfire, what makes you think that they'll cooperate?" asked Red Alert nervously, wondering if perhaps the pressure of command was causing the white shuttle to go the tiniest bit crackers.

Jetfire sighed and continued, feeling Starscream's optics burning a hole in his head.

"Guys…", he began, but was interrupted by the sounds of a scuffle somewhere behind Scavenger. A small voice yelped "Ow!", and a triumphant beeping noise was heard. There was a metallic clang, as though a steel fist had just connected with a steel head.

_I do _not _need this right now_, thought Jetfire, before groaning, "Will you two cut it out?!"

Scavenger moved aside, revealing Swindle and Jolt, both busy pummelling each other. Upon Jetfire's order they stopped and blinked up at the tall bot. Swindle's fingers, he noted, were still wrapped around Jolt's neck, whilst Jolt's hands were tight around Swindle's leg, as though busy trying to rip it off. They broke apart, both looking equally petulant. Hot Shot scooped up Jolt, who continued to curse Swindle in beeps, whilst Starscream snatched up the red Minicon and glared at him.

"_**What**_ were you-…"

"He called me an anti-social moron," muttered Swindle so that only Starscream could hear his words.

"And that surprises you _why_?" snapped back the seeker quietly, his words strong with acid.

Swindle glared furiously at him and gave his finger a kick before stomping his arm to stand on the seeker's shoulder. Jolt perched upon Hot Shot's hand and glared in silence at the other, thus beginning one of the most epic staring contests since the dawn of time.

Returning to real world, Jetfire turned back to the Autobots and tried again.

"I know nobody likes the idea of proposing a truce with the Decepticons-_yes, thank you, Hot Shot_-, even if it is a temporary one. But guys, we're helpless, our communications don't work and our guns are down. We can't warp back for some reason and even Red Alert cannot figure out what is going on. All we know is that it can't be a Decepticon trick, because they haven't been shooting at us or moving to warp out, which says to me that their equipment is also not working. We're all dangerously low on energy and we need to contact the base. Now, we'll be able to do that a lot quicker if we don't have to waste time looking over our backs in case the Decepticons sneak upon us. And maybe the have some idea of what is going on, while we don't!"

"Jetfire, do you honestly think that they'll stick to a truce? The second we look away they'll abandon us or start attacking! And even if we do get our power back-…"

"Then everything will go back to normal and we can all start trying to kill each other again. But for now, I think we should try to cooperate."

There was a long moment of silence. The sense in Jetfire's words was clear, but the idea went against everything in the foundation of their sparks. Cooperating with Decepticons… getting them to understand the idea was like trying to get a polar bear to adapt to the desert. Scavenger looked thoughtful and impassive, Red Alert was worried, Hot Shot was fuming with indignity whilst Starscream merely continued to stare at Jetfire in eerie silence. Thank Primus Blurr and Hoist weren't here or he really would have had his work cut out for him.

Red Alert, bless him, was the first to speak.

"I-I agree with Jetfire," he mumbled. Quickly gaining confidence, he continued, saying, "If Prime were here, he would do the same. Our personal feelings aren't as important as our survival. We should at least send someone over to propose a truce. They probably won't even agree to it, but I feel we should try."

Jetfire looked at Scavenger, pleading in his optics.

(How did Optimus do it? How did he get everyone to agree with him, instantly? If Optimus Prime were to suggest that it would be a good idea to blow Cybertron to smithereens, two hours later there would be one less star in the sky. Jetfire couldn't do it. He simply did not believe that he was any good with people. People argued with him, people distrusted him, people only really listened to him when he was cracking a joke. People didn't respond to him the way they did to Optimus. That was why all he could do was look at Scavenger and hope that he would agree with the idea.

Normally, of course, it would have been a simple matter of giving an order and having it obeyed, but now he had no Optimus to back him up, and even he thought that the plan was bordering on crazy.)

The tall mercenary continued to looked thoughtful, and casually strolled to stand next to a mound of rock which rose from the snow like a jagged black tooth. They had moved toward it because it provided some small measure of shelter in the otherwise barren landscape.

Still casual and still looking thoughtful, Scavenger raised his optics to the sky and said, "Hmm."

Faster than anyone could trace, he drew back a massive fist and punched a hole in the rock, sending splinters flying.

Looking thoughtful but a great deal more determined, he stuck his arm through the hole and fished around on the other side. There was a metallic clang and Scavenger grinned. He ripped his arm out again and the hole in the rock suddenly became a lot bigger. This was because he had just wrenched a tall blue, winged transformer right through it.

"Well, well, well. Looky what we got here," grunted the Autobot, catching hold of the seeker's other arm and holding them both behind his back. The seeker cursed and kicked and struggled, but Scavenger was stronger than he looked.

"A spy!" hissed Hot Shot, bunching his fists.

"Wait, there's another one!" gasped Red Alert, pointing at the hole in the rock. A face was looking through it, frozen in horror. It disappeared but was seen seconds later as Scavenger held onto the blue seeker with one hand and sent his fist through the hole after the other. And he really was _very_ fast. Another seeker, black and purple in this case, was yanked squealing to the other side of the rock.

The blue one took advantage of Scavenger's momentary distraction and darted away, jerking himself free. He was unable to escape, however, as Hot Shot and Red Alert grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him to the ground.

Through all this commotion, Starscream had remained utterly still, the Air Defence team waiting expectantly by his feet. Swindle, who had good survival instincts, had quietly gotten down from his shoulder and moved to hide behind Jetfire. The Minicon listened to Hot Shot giving a small noise of pain, as the mech he was trying to restrain bit him.

"What d'you hear, Decepticon?" growled Scavenger into the purple one's audio receptor.

"Okay," gasped the smaller mech, his voice high and his optics wide. "I'll tell you…"

Without warning he slipped from Scavenger's grip, a feat which had not been achieved before. Spinning out of the reach of the other Autobot's hands, he shot to his feet with an odd, feline grace that seemed somehow familiar. Feet apart, he raised his arms to aim his guns at Scavenger and Jetfire. His mouth slid open to give them both a vicious grin and his optics glowed maliciously.

"…everything", he finished, and gave a short cackle. "Okay, you two let go of him, you with the big arms get…"

He stopped talking as he felt the tip of a sword press, very gently, against the back of his neck.

"Does that gun even work?" said the one standing behind him, speaking softly.

_I __**know**__ that voice_, thought Skywarp.

The purple seeker blinked, his optics flashing on and off in surprise, before a sudden grin split his face. Meanwhile, Red Alert had found the opportunity to look closer at the blue and white one's face and body.

"Hey…" he said slowly. "He looks almost exactly like-…"

"STARSCREAM!" squealed Skywarp, spinning around and grinning at the sight of his ex-wingmate.

"'Starscream'?" repeated Red Alert, confused.

"Starscream?!" gasped the blue seeker.

"Starscream…" growled Jetfire, turning to glare at his flying partner.

And Starscream looked, for the first time in his life, extremely guilty and uncomfortable.

"Screamer! It's you! You're alive! 'Cracker thought you'd got shot or killed or maimed or blown up or something! But you haven't! You're here! You're alive! You're…you're…looking weird for some reason…" trailed off the purple seeker slowly.

He fell silent as his erratic mental processes noticed certain things. Such as the way the Autobots were staring at the red seeker in irritation, not hate. Such as the way Starscream had just held a strangely shaped sword to his neck, but made no move to attack the Autobots. Such as the fact that there were no other Decepticons around…and Screamer could hardly have gotten this close to the enemy on his own…

"You're…" he said again, and his optics flickered to the red symbol upon Starscream's left wing.

"You're…kidding," he finished flatly. Behind him, Thundercracker's jaw sagged and he stared at the red seeker in disbelief.

Starscream sighed heavily and said as calmly as he could, "Is there _any_ other time we can discuss thi-…"

"Oh, sure," muttered Skywarp, his voice growing bitter, "that's just _perfect_, isn't it? First you abandon us to go follow Megatron around like a puppy, then you betray Megatron to go play with the 'Bots. Nice, Screamer, real nice. Should have expected it I guess. But you know, Starscream…you know…you are just…so…I mean…scrapit…_HOW THE SLAG COULD YOU DO THAT?!"_

The Autobots winced as the high-pitched shriek hurt their audio receptors. But Starscream just looked mutinous and cold.

"I'm a traitor," he said coolly. "It's what I do."

The purple one gaped at him, then made a snarling noise of frustration, throwing up his hands and glaring at the entire universe in disgust. Unable to express himself appropriately, he kicked the snow, sending white powder soaring.

"Our wingmate, the _Autobot,_" murmured Thundercracker in disbelief, ignoring the two holding him down. If looks could have killed, Starscream would have been a steaming puddle of grease by now. To the surprise of all, it was Jetfire who was next to lose his sanity.

"Wingmate?!", he repeated, turning to gaze at the seeker in horror. "These are your…?"

"Not anymore," muttered Starscream sullenly, avoiding Jetfire's gaze.

"And good riddance," snapped Skywarp, folding his arms and turning his back to the other.

"Uh…hello? I hate to interrupt your little soap opera, but could we-…"

It was a brave attempt on Red Alert's part, but futile. Skywarp burst out once more, completely ignoring the medic's efforts to restore peace.

"Primus, when I think of all we did for you!" he wailed, edging on the over-dramatic. "Risking our necks day and night, flying with a lunatic for a leader. All the orders I took from you, doing my duty, never questioning your wisdom…"

"Never questioning?!" gasped Starscream. "You spent _half your existence_ driving me to **madness!** I remember when I told you to go fetch a bottle of chrome polish and you _argued _about it for three hours!"

"I was wounded!"

"You had a dent on your _finger_! I couldn't make it out without a microscope! You weren't even _leaking_!!!"

By now, Starscream had begun to verge dangerously on hysterical, and Jetfire decided it was time to step in.

"When exactly were you going to tell me that you'd had other wingmates?" he demanded, unable to keep the note of intense jealousy from his vocal monitor. Unable to keep everyone else from hearing it too. Skywarp turned around and stared at him, as though noticing the shuttle for the first time. Realization dawned upon his faceplate like a motorcycle slamming headlong into a train.

"…Oh," he said after a long pause, and glanced from Starscream to Jetfire again. "I _seeeeee_."

He sighed, and said, "Well, he's not bad, Screamer, nice wings, but in my opinion, you could have done better."

Starscream raked his ebony fingers down his faceplate.

By now, Scavenger, Red Alert and Hot Shot had been watching the scene in fascination, the way people will look at a catastrophe or a massive cyclone. Wanting to look away, but unable to. But Red Alert drew himself back to the problem at hand. This arguing, although very informative, was getting the nowhere. And time was wasting away. Already, Red Alert felt weaker than he had an hour ago. They had to do this fast.

"All right, all of you listen to me," he thundered, in his best Third-In-Command voice.

And it was unfortunate that Cyclonus chose that moment to dive down, as Wheeljack and Mayfly burst from the nearest mound of snow.

Hands moved, guns drew and somewhere far away, Sideways laughed.

* * *

Optimus Prime got to his feet and checked the condition of his soldiers. His head still rung horribly, but the initial feeling of dizziness had passed. 

Hoist was leaning against a computer terminal, muttering curses under his breath. Blurr stood once more, having drawn his rifle from habit. Something was going on that he did not understand, but chances were good that there would soon be shooting involved. That was fine with him.

Sideswipe was only now getting to his feet, Nightbeat by his side making concerned beeps. Alexis and Carlos stood nearby, carefully out the ranged of being crushed by accident should the Autobot collapse again. All around them, equipment and computer modules had gone dead, screens had gone blank and the soft but steady hum of electricity that flowed through the walls of the base had gone, leaving the hallways as silent as the inside of a coffin. Optimus had been on this base a long time, and knew it as well as Red Alert. It felt dead.

"Ugggh," muttered Hoist, summing up everyone's feelings in just one sweet syllable. The silver Minicon Skyscan was at his side, anxiously enquiring as to what was wrong. Private and stubborn though he often was, it was clear to all that Skyscan cared for Hoist and instantly despised all who moved to harm him. Hate was an emotion that came quickly to the newest Minicon, who held little but disinterest for the rest of the Autobots. The other Minicons clustered by him, not as badly effected by the drain as the larger transformers.

"I think," Optimus sighed, "we can assume that something has gone wrong."

* * *

They had been watching as the seekers advanced and were captured, much to Wheeljack's fury. The makeshift plan had been simple; go in, make a lot of noise, cause a distraction, hope to Primus they don't know that our guns don't work. Wheeljack had seriously considered just leaving the two flying fools to the enemy, but realized that Megatron would not be delighted to find that his latest recruits had been captured on their first day. 

Unfortunately, things had gone wrong.

Cyclonus thought, _So, what else is new I wonder?_

The Autobots had reacted quickly. Too quickly. Within split seconds two of them had aimed guns at Thundercracker, one at Skywarp and two at the three other Decepticons. This would have been very impressive to an onlooker who did not know that the only weapon currently capable of doing any serious damage was the Air Defence Team, who had not yet bothered to combine.

_And this, I believe, is called a Mexican stand off_, mused Skywarp, who really did enjoy researching human culture. Silence seeped in as they stood poised to fire, stiff as statues.

Then the medic spoke. Cyclonus was glad to see him without the annoying squishy bipeds tagging along, and gave him the tiniest wink.

_Oh, Primus, no. Not now. Not __**him! **_-thought a small part of Red Alert in abject terror. No. Sorry. Not right now. This he could not cope with.

"Why don't we all just calm down?" said Red Alert slowly, trying desperately not to notice the fact the _Cyclonus_ had just winked at him, and was now concealing a giggle. "I'm quite sure that none of your guns work either, so maybe we could all just lower them for a moment?"

And the scary thing was they _listened_ to him, thought Jetfire in amazement. Somehow, when Red Alert talked in his sane, rational, stop-this-nonsense voice, people automatically relaxed. Often it didn't last long, but here it lasted long enough.

The Autobots reluctantly lowered their weapons upon his command. Slowly, the Decepticons did the same.

The quiet descended once more, and Cyclonus fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his fingers absently tapping against his side in boredom. Out the corner of his optic band, Red Alert noticed that Hot Shot was determinedly looking everywhere but at Wheeljack, who just looked ahead as Jetfire cautiously stepped forward.

_I'm cool, I'm The Mech, I can do this, Optimus would do the same, I'm cool…_

Standing up straight, unclenching his fists and looking the other firmly in his chemical-blue optics, Jetfire began. First explaining his reasons, speaking all the while as logically as he was able. And finally, feeing like a scummy, hypocritical traitor, he proposed a truce.

Wheeljack stared blankly at him for a second in blatant surprise. Thinking more quickly than he would have liked, he nodded before calling a 'council of war'. That is, he exchanged a few hissed words with Cyclonus, who whispered back frantically, glancing at the Autobots venomously to make sure that they weren't eavesdropping.

Whilst this was going on, Thundercracker, who had a laser pressed against the back of his head, tried to indicate his thoughts on the matter. For example, that it wasn't really a good idea to refuse the enemy when the enemy had two of your guys hostage. Especially when said enemy looked as ready to scatter the contents of his head over the ground as this banana-coloured brat looked, he mentally added, peeking a look at Hot Shot. As usual, his thoughts on the matter were completely ignored. Fair enough, he guessed.

Finally, and with great reluctance, Wheeljack stepped forward, his mouth set in discontentment. He looked as a human with indigestion might look. Whatever next came out of his mouth, he wouldn't like it.

"We accept," growled the black Decepticon.


	6. Adaptation

Adaptation

Someone was crying.

It was a soft, barely-there sound, though he didn't have to strain to hear it. Always, in his head, something tiny and almost-forgotten was weeping. Not loudly, as if the grief was simply too much for wailing or screaming. Too much for words or wisdom or healing.

Someone was always crying, slaggit.

Occasionally there was the touch of a ragged, heart-broken sob escaping, but for the most part it was just crying, soft and quiet and endless. Whoever was crying had been crying forever. Whoever was crying would never stop.

This one wasn't as frequent as the flames, but at least those demons only came upon him in recharge. When the crying-sounds started, he would more often than not be wide awake, dealing with something important or fighting. He had learnt to ignore it over time. He rarely wondered who it was, although he did wish that the sobbing one would leave him alone. Crying was useless. Crying did not help or change anything.

He didn't know why he heard the sound sometimes. Probably just another part of his mainframe damaged by the fire. The damned fire that had succeeded in more than merely changing the course of his life and leaving him scarred: It had broken him. He couldn't concentrate half as well as he used to. Strange things irritated him; cracks in the wall, clouds, patterns in dust. And cold. Cold irritated him especially.

But worst of all were the nightmares. Not only the ones of flame, but the waking ones as well. Although he could pretend to not notice it, the crying came near to driving him mad. It never stopped, the stupid fool just continued weeping, with no one to comfort him or her, unable to pick themselves off the ground, too pathetic and terrified and destroyed to do anything more than weep.

And now, standing in the snow with his strange 'allies' and those with red symbols who he had shunned and denounced, he heard it again. Never loud, never quite soft enough to not notice.

* * *

And _now, _decided Sideways he was going to do something foolish.

His plan had been progressing well, and he had been at the point of believing they actually would just kill themselves off, solving most of his problems at once. But then something had happened. Just like the last time it seemed that everything was going fine and on schedule, they had surprised him yet again. Really, this was becoming quite tiresome.

However, he was nothing if not a master of adjustment. All they really needed was a good scare. And he was more than happy to oblige.

Once they were back in panic, he was sure, they would react by instinct and go for each other's throats. Mindless beasts locked in a room together, unable to do anything but rip each other apart. So had it been since the beginning of the war. So would it be now, and all the way until their inevitable demise.

If nothing else, a few words from him would serve to confuse and disturb them, and waste more of their precious time. The incarnation of Anarchy went to work.

* * *

Wheeljack knew how bad the situation was. Apart from anything else, the mech who should rightly be in charge of the Earth-bound Decepticons was Cyclonus, as his superior officer. This was cause enough to worry. However, Wheeljack was quite sure that Megatron would sooner chew off his own arm than allow Cyclonus to command a group of Decepticons. Especially, perhaps, this little group.

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't look at him._

That was the phrase that was repeating itself over and over in his mind, even as he listened to Red Alert's suggestion.

"It would work."

Hearing this, he inwardly slapped himself into paying attention. Sure, negotiating with the enemy was Cyclonus's job, but it was Wheeljack's responsibility. As far as he could tell, Cyc was already looking bored, and was passing the time making faces at Starscream, who threw him a sizzling glare.

_And apart from my patience, that's the only thing that's sizzling._

His joints hurt. Not much, but with an almost gentle pain that hinted at the greater agony that would come later, when his body was completely out of energy and could keep him warm no longer. And, although he tried hard not to show it, the Autobot Second-in-Command was already hunched over, as though exhausted.

The medic, however, was not.

"It would work," he repeated, somehow sensing Hot Shot roll his optics behind him. "It would be difficult and it's a risk, but it could be our only chance. If we got to a point high enough, then we might be able to get a faint signal through to the base."

"Which base?" asked Wheeljack suspiciously. Red Alert shrugged. He felt strangely energised by this latest challenge, that could not be solved by guns or brute strength. These days, it wasn't often the medic was given a chance to shine, so it was nice to fuel his famished, fading ego once in a while.

"I don't know. Like I said, it's a long shot. But you have my word that, if we can only contact the Autobots to come rescue us, you will all be released to return back to the Decepticon base any way you can."

"And if we can contact the Decepticon base?"

"Then, to uphold your end of the bargain, you would release us too when your team mates came to find you," said Red Alert smoothly, calling upon all his powers of diplomacy. This time he did not just sense but actually heard Hot Shot's snort of disgust. And saw Wheeljack twitch.

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him. _

"However, I should warn you that if you attempt to take us hostage, we will fight."

"As will we," said Wheeljack, the faint glow of defiance in his optics mirroring Megatron for one disturbing moment.

Red Alert nodded, brushing away the tinge of guilt. He was being sneaky, and it did not come naturally to him. In truth, he knew it was far more likely that they would be able to contact the Autobot base, simply because it was on Earth. But he did not mention this.

Wheeljack felt no guilt at all, but privately thought that the medic was a trusting fool, like so many Autobots. If they did contact the Decepticon base first, likely as not Megatron would come with the rescue team, and then it wouldn't really matter if the Autobots resisted capture or not. The possibility that Red Alert had already considered that fact did not occur to him.

"We would need to use Mayfly, I suppose," he muttered, and gave a brief explanation of the femme's talents, upon seeing Red Alert's blank look.

It would have all been a great deal simpler if they could have just transferred energy from one of themselves and used it to activate the com-links. The problem with that (and, _of course_, there was a problem) was that, in this freezing climate, such a move would have left the mech in question with not enough energy to power a digital watch.

Yes, indeed-y, Wheeljack knew how bad the situation was.

It took some time and quite a lot of arguing and thinly-veiled threats, but eventually a plan was formed. It wasn't much of a plan. In the opinion of Hot Shot and Cyclonus, it was a pretty lousy plan. But it was better than nothing.

The plan was thus; Red Alert seemed quite certain, after checking thorough the tons of equipment he carried in his subspace pocket, that the communications devices were not all completely worthless. Some were still active, although lacking in power. Were they to get higher, he proposed, there was a good chance they could send out some kind of signal to one of the bases. His hopes were dramatically increased upon learning of Mayfly, and her function as a communications module. Possibly, thought the scientist in him, not without excitement at the thought of a challenge, they could hook one of the Autobot devices up to the Decepticon soldier, amplifying the signal.

Neither Jetfire nor Starscream had the vocabulary or the time to point out every one of the ten billion ways in which this sick, half-formed mutation of a 'plan' could go wrong. However, the Autobot Second was fully aware that it was, unfortunately, the only thing they had. He saw Wheeljack nodding, and was glad that someone else seemed to like the idea.

Cyclonus knew it was a lousy plan. He was crazy, not stupid. Still, he did not question the medic's wisdom. Apart from an alarming tendency to fall into holes, the helicopter saw him as the only Autobot in the universe who was even half competent.

As the two temporary leaders conversed, members of both factions eyed each other, distrustful as alley cats. Scavenger's expression remained neutral, but Hot Shot and Skywarp were locked in a silent glare. Thundercracker looked on with mild interest, although his optics flickered frequently to his errant ex-wingmate.

"Okay, then. So we gotta get to a high point," said Wheeljack in a level voice.

"Yes," Red Alert confirmed. Inwardly, he beamed. Negotiations were progressing nicely.

"Okay," repeated Wheeljack. "So would you care to show me where this 'high point' is?"

He gestured to the miles and miles of absolutely nothing which stretched out before them. Red Alert's optics dimmed upon the discovery of Vital Flaw Number One, and he quickly glanced to the horizon. With increasing dismay, as all they showed were some medium-sized-but-really-kinda-small mountains in the distance.

Wheeljack resisted the urge to roll his optics. Just like an Autobot; good with thinking up big schemes but slagging useless when it came to making them work.

_Let me guess, the idiot thought a giant _staircase _would spontaneously appear in front of him?_

With a sigh, Wheeljack turned to Skywarp and Thundercracker.

"You two! New job. Try to not to mess it up. Get into the air, find us a 'high point', like our little friend says," he added snidely, giving Red Alert a smirk. Although the medic's face remained impassive, his fingers started to twitch.

"Should they really be flying?" he asked in a voice low with control. "It'll drain their energy even faster."

Wheeljack stared at him coldly.

"Do you see another option?" he queried, and Red Alert did not.

Jetfire and Starscream took into the air as well, heading east whilst the two seekers headed west. Not, however, before Skywarp had given Starscream a glare that would haunt a child's nightmares. The Autobot Second was loathe to leave 'his team' alone in the snow with three of the enemy, but knew full well that he and Starscream would be able to find a suitably high mountain far faster than either of the semi-sane seekers.

Besides, if a fight did break out in his absence (Hot Shot was there, Wheeljack was there, Cyclonus was there. _When _a fight broke out in his absence, he corrected himself gloomily), then the three Autobots would probably be able to hold their own. Scavenger could handle Wheeljack, Red Alert could handle the little green one and Hot Shot could handle Cyclonus, who wasn't all that great at combat when he was taken out of the air.

As they ascended into the pale grey sky, Jetfire tried to calm down and reassure himself that everything would be alright. Somehow, he was not surprised to find that it didn't work.

* * *

A loud 'clang' echoed throughout the moon base.

Cursing softly, Megatron extracted his hand from the side of the wall. He berated himself for the pointless waste of time and energy that his little temper tantrum had cost, but nonetheless felt quite satisfied. It was quite a sizable hole in the wall, whilst his dark fist had sustained barely a scratch.

What had caused this outburst was a simple, unpleasant discovery. The Warp gate was not working.

He should have known. When something went wrong, he had learned over the years, everything went wrong. And it was quite clear that yes, something had gone hugely, disastrously wrong.

_And if it has ANYTHING to do with Starscream, or Prime, or Cyclonus, I will probably go mad,_ he thought darkly.

The sounds of muffled arguing alerted him to Demolisher and Impact, as they made their way into the warp room. Apparently, one of them had insulted the other, or stepped on the other's foot, or just plain committed the unholy sin of existing. Megatron's mouth turned down even further. Not long after, Thrust arrived, looking the least disturbed at the chain of events. But then, the flyer had little use for the huge supplies of energy that were required to keep the likes of Demolisher and Cyclonus going. His talents were for fancy thinking work, and his passion was for scheming.

Demolisher had often mused that Thrust was the only flyer he knew who truly had little love of flying. He did it when he had to, and would have admitted that he drew no real pleasure from it. _Would have_, if Thrust ever admitted anything to anyone.

Tidal Wave eventually lumbered into the warp room as well, seeming to be handling the situation the worst. His shoulders were hunched over and his movements were slow and stilted. Strange, considering the giant warrior had always seemed unstoppable to all but Optimus Prime. And, though Demolisher would not admit it, it scared the living daylights from him. If even Tidal Wave, their champion warrior and resident Immovable Object, was not handling this, what hope did they have?

The green tank frowned mightily and forced back the wave of panic that threatened to swamp his systems.

The reason for this, in fact, was quite simple. Tidal Wave required a great deal more energy to simply keep moving than any of the other Decepticons, due to his monumental size. After battle, he would remain in recharge two hours longer than even Cyclonus, and his healing systems were slow.

As a host of questions and nervous words rose around him, Megatron drew himself together. Time to play Leader.

"Men," he boomed, his voice reaching to the farthest corners of the room. "We have a crisis on our hands."

A part of his mind waited for someone to snort derisively or say _And how long did it take you to figure that out?_, before he remembered that Starscream wasn't there.

"A crisis," he continued, momentarily thrown by the gaping hole where Sarcasm used to stand. "Our energy levels have dropped to virtually nil. Five of our number are stranded below with the enemy. Our computers are down and, as I have just discovered, the warp gate it not working. This may be the fault of the wretched Autobots, in which case there will be"- and here he dropped his vocal monitor to a low growl and glared- "consequences. Whether or not they are responsible, however, we will still be-…"

He was cut off by a soft crackling sound from across the room.

Optics narrowed to slits, he slowly turned his head to the computer terminal it had come from, as did the other Decepticons.

The problem was that the computer in question was not working. It had not even been working when they had first taken up residence in the base. It had been used for target practise once or twice by Cyclonus, and now sported a blackened hole in the side.

The screen was glowing.

And it was glowing in a way that would have made even Cyclonus have second thoughts about shooting at it. Something about the glow, faint and pale green, suggested that it could and would shoot back. Against the grin, dull backdrop of the Decepticon base, it seemed almost innocent and playful. In the same way a poisonous snake looks pretty, _as long as it is behind glass_.

But _it _was not an it. Megatron knew it by sheer instinct. _It _was a _him,_ and an unwelcome him at that…

As all the other Decepticons stared at the screen in bewilderment, Megatron drew himself up and waited, his chin tilted upwards like a king waiting to greet an ambassador from a nation that has just declared war on his own.

"Can we get the theatrics over with?" he said coldly to the glowing screen, which was now beginning to dissolve into a static picture. The green faded, replaced by purple and grey and black and…

"Sideways…" breathed Thrust, his optics widening with what might have been fear or fascination. The last time he had spoken with the traitor they had been conspiring together. The ghost's plans had not worked. Now, it seemed, he had decided to deal with them personally.

Even with his mouthless face and his mad, icy optics, Sideways managed to convey a smile to them all. Against his will, Megatron felt his hand edging towards his gun. He forced it still. Now was not the time. At least, not yet…

"So, Commander," said the apparition on the screen, his words laced with amusement and contempt, "are you well?"

And that was the worst part of Sideways, Demolisher thought. He was _irritating_. Dangerous, manipulative and possibly quite mad, but all these factors were overshadowed by the sheer desire to punch his dirty, silver-tongued face in. Listening to him and his laughter, even the most loyal mech in the universe would instantly denounce his faction and his leader, just for the chance to claw away at Sideways's circuits until he shut up. Demolisher had met several Autobots and Decepticons in his time who he had truly hated, but nobody-_nobody_- who he hated half as much as Sideways. If the motorcycle had been standing before them in the steel, the green tank-bot would have already taken aim.

Megatron forced a fanged grin onto his face, looking like a deranged, bloodthirsty shark.

"Ah, Sideways," he purred, rubbing his hands as though in anticipation at the imminent war of words. My, what fun this promised to be. "To what do I how the _honour_ of this visit?"

"Merely coming to check up on my favourite tyrant and his warriors," replied Sideways sweeter still, his charming manner lying at odds with the barbs and poison that ran through his words.

Megatron's smile remained, though his optics deepened to wine-red with anger at being condescended by the accursed virus.

"I suppose you have come to confess?" he asked, changing tactic.

"To what, dear commander?" asked the other merrily, as though they were having a relaxed chat over a cup of tea. Across the room, Thrust winced. Megatron hissed like a scalded cat, losing the mask of calm.

"You, filthy, treacherous _thing_" he spat, abandoning politeness, "are responsible for this-this- disease!"

The two pink points of light on the monitor lit up with a dark, unnatural glee.

"Yes. I am" said Sideways softly, savouring the fury he was provoking. _It's just too easy_, he though, for the twelfth time in the last hour.

_I wonder if he's going to tell us to open fire on the computer_? thought Demolisher, and bit back a Cyclonus-esque nervous laugh. He wished it had proven to be the Autobots behind this mess. He could deal with Autobots. Autobots could be shot at. Autobots went away after you killed them. Sideways was a different matter entirely.

Demolisher was not scared of him, although perhaps it would have been better if he was. It was worse than fear; it was anger. It was anger borne from a single fact; Megatron was scared of Sideways. However he tried to disguise it beneath bravado and hatred, Demolisher could see the fear that danced ever so lightly upon his leader's face whenever the virus was mentioned.

And it made him so _angry_! Megatron was not supposed to scared. Megatron was not supposed to be scared of _anything_. Megatron was supposed to be the rock, the cunning, the fearless leader who held their war-like, half-mad faction together. To see Megatron scared… it somehow suggested that _Sideways_, the traitor, the liar, the coward, _Sideways_ had already beaten them. So maybe if Megatron hadn't been scared, Demolisher would have allowed himself to be as terrified as he should have been. Maybe if Megatron had just regarded Sideways with the typical cold loathing and contempt he reserved for any enemy, maybe then Demolisher would have been scared. But, as it was, he did not allow himself that luxury. Megatron, their leader, was scared. Whether others noticed it or not, it was the truth. Therefore, it was up to Demolisher, dumb, slow-witted Demolisher to fill the gap.

Fine. Let Megatron be scared, just this once. If Megatron could deal with the task of negotiating with Sideways, then Demolisher could deal with the task of not being scared.

Thus, as Thrust, Black-out, Inferno and even Impact drew away from the glowing screen in fear, Demolisher simply folded his arms and gave Sideways the most ferocious glare he could muster.

Megatron knew none of this. The presence of Demolisher standing behind him had become so constant he often forgot that the green tank-bot was even there. But the Decepticon commander did draw himself together, forcing back his anger (not _fear _not _fear_) and allowing cold calculation to take over. He tilted up his chin in rude defiance, a trick gleaned from Starscream whenever pride overcame pain. He tapped his finger slowly against one arm and narrowed his optics in thought. He didn't notice Demolisher's relieved grin.

_Geez, he's pushing his luck. __**All **__our luck_, thought Demolisher, and felt a burst of renewed hope. Suicidal defiance from Megatron in the face of an unbeatable enemy was always a refreshing sight.

"Hmm," said Megatron, cocking his head to the side with sheer insolence. Another trick gleaned from Starscream, come to think of it.

The pink optics upon the screen brightened with confusion at the sudden change of behaviour. At Demolisher's glare, they dimmed down to a pale crimson with slow-burning rage.

_Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. _

A chill, frosty silence fell upon the room. Even Wheeljack and Cyclonus, stuck in an Earthling ice-land, would have shivered. The Decepticons gazed on in awe and creeping terror.

All save for one. As the tyrant and the demon fell into a silent contest of wills, Tidal Wave looked on in confusion. Not an emotion he experienced often. The behemoth knew that the room had suddenly filled with tension, knew that a titanic battle was unfolding, and still had not the faintest idea of what was going on.

_Politics_, he concluded, and returned to his own mysterious thoughts.

As per usual, it was Megatron who broke the silence. Haughtily as was possible under the strenuous circumstances, he said, "Seeing as you are the one behind this, cowardly creature, I assume you did not come here to exchange social niceties. I have many things to attend to, so let us be brief: What do you want?"

Even as he said it, the dark mech winced, only his iron will keeping him from slumping over. Another tremor of weakness swept through his form, reminding him of his increasingly desperate state. Sideways noticed, and was glad.

"Simply to let you know that I've won," said the purple mech, smugly.

He was rewarded by a few seconds of intense, dangerous silence.

"What?," said Megatron, softly.

"I've _won_, mighty Megatron. That's all. Puny, pathetic, weakling leader of a few thieves and madmen. I've won. You have four hours left to live. You're helpless. Helpless. When you die there'll be no one left to mourn your empty carcass. Not that that's particularly surprising, brutal, repulsive mech that you are. Not a single thought in your head save for conquest and war. Pathetic, just like all of you. Did you really believe I was just another traitor, hmm? How very, very stupid of you."

He laughed, and it had a fluttery, twisted edge to it. His mouth felt even more laced with acid than usual, and Primus, it was fun. Saying what he had always longed to say to the mindless, ugly creatures who had called themselves his 'comrades'.

"I suppose," he continued, starting to break up into near-hysterical giggling, "that I just called to say goodbye. Goodbye, Megatron! And all your-…"

The chilling laughter and infuriating words were cut short, as Megatron released an enraged snarl and leapt across the room with snake-like speed. Drawing back a massive fist, he plunged it deep into the broken computer. The squealing of metal and the flash of electricity were heard and seen as the module was ripped from it's fittings on the ground and Sideways disappeared in a burst of static. The computer, meanwhile, collapsed in a heap of broken parts, conquered at last.

"Men," said Megatron, withdrawing his fist and continuing in his speech as though nothing had happened. He turned back to the Decepticons-all of whom, save for Demolisher, were gazing upon him in rapt silence. "We have a crisis on our hands. I, however, have an idea."

* * *

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him._

By now, the mantra was losing its effectiveness.

Which was a pity, because it had worked really well for the first ten minutes. Now he was starting to crack.

Which couldn't happen. He could, under no circumstances, allow himself to crack. If he cracked, he would just fly at him, tackle him to the ground and beat the living slag out of the yellow, whingeing brat, truce or no truce. And that would mean the end of the ceasefire, which would mean the end of their only chance for survival.

If he cracked, all the bitter, spark-sore accusations that were running around in his mind would come out, he would start screaming and flinging curses at him and he would not be able to stop himself.

Wheeljack clenched his fingers and relaxed them again.

_Think of it as a challenge,_ he told himself. He was normally good with challenges. _Imagine he's a pink elephant and you'll be granted immortality and ten million credits if you just _don't look at him_. Come to think of it, don't think about him. In fact, it's probably for the best if you just pretend he doesn't exist._

And he could do it. He would not let Megatron down by leading the Decepticons to disaster. More importantly, he would not let himself down by letting the Autobots see him break.

As they waited in silence for the seekers to return, Red Alert noticed the way Wheeljack looked at Hot Shot out of the corner of his optics, and shivered.

* * *

"So, what d'you reckon we do?" mused Hoist.

And a fine question it was, too, thought Optimus. They had just received a message from Sideways, almost identical to the one Megatron had received. In a way, it was a relief to have his worst suspicions confirmed. In many more ways, it was not.

Across the room, Sideswipe muttered to himself like genius on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, as he fiddled with the controls on a communications board. With, not surprisingly, very little success. Instead of the warm hum of electricity there was only the stone-dead silence. Had Red Alert been there, he might well have burst into tears.

Optimus was not having a good day.

This was not saying a great deal, as the Just and Benevolent Leader of the Autobots had not had a good day, free from trouble and strife, for the last six million years. But today was really starting to take the cake. And the biscuit. And whatever other pieces of human confectionary were lying around neglected. Today, in short, was rapidly descending into a Seriously Cruddy Day. And it was only twelve 'o clock.

The Autobot frowned and was about to suggest a course of action when Blurr swore loudly and dropped his rifle on his foot. This alone would have been cause for alarm, as Blurr gripped his rifle the way a mother clings to her child. But it was not this which caught the Autobots' attention as they turned to see what had so shocked the blue warrior.

Namely, Megatron's face projected onto the holo-screen above them.

The holo-screen which was not supposed to be working.

* * *

"Sir, is this really safe?" queried Thrust nervously. "The stars do not predict that-…"

"Silence, drone!" growled Megatron, turning from the Decepticon's projection-screen to glower at the tactician.

Thrust fell quiet, although his every molecule was violently protesting. He squirmed uncomfortably as his energy was fed into the machine by means of a series of cables. Technically, he supposed, using his energy to fuel a temporary link to the Autobots could be considered a good idea but…

"I was merely wondering if I should be the one to-…" he tried, pathetically.

"Demolisher and Impact are in greater need of their energy than you," said Megatron coldly, turning back to the screen. "Your so-called 'tactics' will be of no use in our current situation. You are, at the moment, the least useful member of my crew. That is why we are using your energy. Now shut up and take it like a Decepticon!"

Thrust's spirits plunged even lower as Demolisher and Impact chuckled to themselves, having found a common ground of loathing for the tactician. He distracted himself from the likely possibility that this 'idea' of Megatron's would kill him by plotting the painful, drawn-out deaths of his fellow soldiers.

Megatron turned back to the screen.

"Prime," he boomed down the speaker, loading his words with all the aloofness and superiority he could. "We need to talk."


	7. Lost

Lost

Starscream wasn't even surprised when the rumble of Jetfire's engines died down. The white triangle flitted around and transformed, leaving the snow-coloured warrior hovering over the earth, arms crossed and facing him.

He was glaring.

The Air Defence Team came to a halt behind him, and exchanged glances. Something was wrong with their master and his friend was not happy about it. Very quietly, Sonar told Jetstorm and Runway to back away a little. He didn't truly believe it would come to blows, but when dealing with an Autobot and a Decepticon in the same airspace it never really hurt to be careful.

"We need to talk", said Jetfire sternly, unaware that Megatron was even now saying those very words to Optimus Prime. Unaware of how much he looked like the tyrant himself at that moment. Possibly it was this factor in particular which caused things to happen the way they did. The seeker frowned, although his shoulders were hunched and his optics were dark with guilt. Yes, they did need to talk. But now was not the time.

(_More than that, more than that._ _You're_ scared_, you cowardly bastard. You're terrified, aren't you? And you're right to be. Run away, _run away…

"We haven't got time to talk now," he snapped, trying not to flinch as Jetfire's look became sterner and more determined, as though he was letting his temper take the place of hurt feelings. The small grey scar on the left of his ebony faceplate grew more apparent, and not for the first time, Starscream wondered how it had gotten there.

Jetfire looked at his flying partner, who stood like a blood-red bloom against the pale, pallid sky and resisted the urge to scream. Despite his best, most courageous efforts, he was finally on the verge of losing it. The last few weeks he had lived in near-perpetual fear of Starscream going crazy or suicidal after his little spat with Megatron. That added to the stress of being responsible for making a decision that may well kill them all, plus the fact that he had no idea how the others back at the base were, it should not have come as a surprise to find that his pressurised, scared-sick, rapidly shortening fuse was finally approaching the gunpowder. It had caused his spark more than a little pain when Commettor had refused to go on the scouting mission with him, "if THAT PERSON is also coming along".

If there was one thing Jetfire couldn't stand, it was concern. He hated people being concerned about him and he hated being concerned about people. Being concerned made him feel helpless and being helpless made him even more scared than being stranded in an arctic wasteland made him feel.

Jetfire had no anatomical need to take a deep breath. Given the fact that he had no lungs, it shouldn't have even been possible. He took a deep breath anyway, feeling a stab of spiteful pleasure at having put logic's nose out of joint yet again. Feeling just a little calmer, he spoke in his most reasonable, Second-In-Command voice.

"You're right. We've got a job to do. They're trusting us to do it. So we will. And when this is over and if we are still alive, I'm going to be asking you a few questions. I'd appreciate it if you'd deem to answer them this time."

Even as he said them, he knew the words had come out far more harshly than he'd wanted them to. Starscream turned his head to the left, so Jetfire couldn't quite make out his face, and gave a short nod. A sensation of guilt once more wormed its way into Jetfire's spark and he almost opened his mouth to take it back, to tell Starscream that he didn't have to say anything he didn't want to, to tell him that it would all be alright. But he didn't. Some unnamed emotion

(not _fear,_ not _fear_)

held him back. Instead, he watched as Starscream transformed once more, and did the same himself. The red seeker swooped low and brushed past him as they continued on their chosen route in awkward silence. If either of them had anything they desperately wanted to say to the other, they found that the words simply refused to pass their scared, stubborn lips.

_Not fear, not fear,_ both minds echoed to themselves, as both pairs of optics shot hurt, nervous glances at each other.

It was possibly because both mechs were busy fighting off cheerful blends of denial and self-loathing that neither of them noticed the wind start to pick up.

* * *

For a moment, Optimus was sure he'd misheard him. 

_Talk?_ he thought, a trifle giddily. _But of course! Why not? And would my most dangerous nemesis also like a refreshing cup of energon and an all-over body wax into the bargain?_

Calm, man, calm. There had to be a reason for this. And, as Prime's mind raced, he sensed a nagging suspicion of what it was.

Sideswipe merely stood and gaped, unaware of Nightbeat moving to hide behind his foot.

The first time he had ever seen Megatron up close had been when the giant mech had carved a ten foot hole in Smokescreen's torso. It had not ranked as one of his Top Ten Positive First Impressions.

Strange that it should come as a shock, but somehow it had been. Sideswipe, who studied people far more closely than they thought he did, had found himself looking closely at Megatron's face. And what he had seen there had made his fear grow to overcome his anger. The blue car had expected to see the ruthlessness; he had not expected to see utter insanity.

An insanity that he had not seen since. Studying Megatron's face now, through the gauze of terror, he saw nothing approaching the terrifying madness that had been upon the purple mech when he had abducted the Minicons. Cruelty, determination, cunning, pride, anger but not insanity.

It often appeared in a ghostly flicker, though only at Smokescreen's execution had he seen it full-fledged and blazing. Primarily when he was locked in combat with Optimus or when the Requiem Blaster was cradled in his arms. Scavenger or Demolisher could have told him that they had noticed the same thing.

Scavenger could have told him that sometimes, just sometimes in the heat of battle, when fighting against Megatron personally, he detected a faint, faint tinge of what could easily be mistaken for madness in the Autobot Leader's own bright, thoughtful gaze. But Scavenger did not tell him this and likely would continue keeping such thoughts to himself even under pain of disembowelment. And oh, that would have been a horrifying revelation for the youngest Autobot. To view Megatron as insane was one thing. To view Optimus as insane was quite, quite another.

Now, however, both leader's looked calm as they regarded one another. Loathing and distrustful, but calm. Blurr and Scavenger looked on with wary interest, the kids with anger and fear. Skyscan's face was a mirror to Hoist, who stood near with his taste detectors grinding and his fingers curled. Aggression billowed off the short Autobot's frame like smoke.

"Talk? That's original Megatron, normally all you need to do is shout at me. What do you want? Be quick."

Prime's voice was calm and betrayed no hint of his bubbling confusion and alarm. Megatron's mouth turned down at the corner's as he regarded his counterpart with undisguised loathing.

"I expect you are aware of the current…situation?"

Optimus nodded.

"Excellent. Then I assume you have also received contact from our late, _lamented _mutual enemy?"

Optimus paused, trying unsuccessfully to decipher Megatron's floral, sarcasm-strewn speech.

"I beg pardon?"

"Sideways."

"Ah. Yes."

Alexis looked on, her expression as calm as she could make it even as her fingers went white from gripping Grindor's shoulder. The other kids were all in varying stages of surprise and panic, with the strange exception of Fred. The large boy seemed to be gradually adapting to the dangers his life had grown to contain, and dealt with this latest twist in his own way; staring stupidly at it and waiting to see what would happen. Although Alexis tried to find some depths of contempt and disgust within her soul, all she could work up was a faint flicker of admiration. At least he was better than Billy, who was currently trying to hide behind Carlos's shoulder. Carlos, who was trying to hide behind Rad, who was trying to make himself as small as possible.

_Boys_, thought Alexis in revulsion.

Sideswipe had now switched his gaze to Optimus, who stood stiffer than a pole as he confronted his nemesis.

"What is this all about, Megatron?" he was currently demanding, his golden optics narrowing with uncharacteristic suspicion that Megatron always managed to provoke.

"Really, Prime, such rudeness," chided the tyrant, as always leaping upon the opportunity to annoy. "I merely contacted you to point out the situation. We have both been duped by Sideways. And we are both low on energy. I assume your men are stranded out on some frozen continent, probably busy trying to decimate my men. The situation is not good."

Optimus felt realization dawn as he listened to the words that his counterpart could not bring himself to say.

"Megatron…" he said slowly, still trying to remain as controlled as possible, "…are you proposing…a truce?"

Megatron's face twitched though a series of negative emotions as, behind him, Hoist gasped, Skyscan sputtered and Blurr almost dropped his gun for the second time.

"How very astute you are today, Prime…" ground out the tyrant.

* * *

Starscream was trying very hard, but he really wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. 

He could have handled it if Jetfire had shouted, or yelled, or hit him, or gone up in smoke. He could have handled it if the white shuttle had started flinging insults. But this silence was simply unbearable.

He had only himself to blame. If nothing else, it had been he who had suggested that they leave discussing the matter until later. That had been a mistake.

Jetfire was _nice. _That was the problem. Starscream had been to many places and had experienced many, many things, but the white and red Autobot was truly one of the first encounters he'd had with sheer, simple kindness. It had thrown him badly at first; the idea that someone might not have an ulterior motive had come as a difficult concept to swallow. But slowly the seeker had come to realize that Jetfire was nice just because he enjoyed being nice.

And he liked Jetfire. That was also the problem. If the white shuttle had been merely another Autobot goody-goody he could have settled into loathing him quite comfortably. But he wasn't. In some areas he seemed almost a Decepticon in his behaviour, arrogant and slow to trust and always ready for a good fight. And then there was that streak of kindness that distinguished him from either faction. Had it been anyone else, Starscream would have dismissed it as more Autobot garbage, but Jetfire was different. Unlike the many Autobots he had met and scrapped, Jetfire was not full of false words of justice and lies about morality and Wouldn't The Universe Be A Perfect Place If We All Just Shook Hands (And Please Step Into These Slave Pens, Decepti-scum, Not That We Don't Trust You Or Anything…).

Jetfire was honest and arrogant and boisterous and kind. He made no sense whatsoever to the red seeker and Starscream wouldn't have had it any other way. Jetfire _understood._

And _that_ was the problem too.

Starscream was no longer able to deny the horrible possibility that he may be falling hopelessly, completely in love with the Autobot Second-In-Command.

Which was partly the reason why this Primus-be-damned silence was starting to make him crack up.

He started to hum, very quietly, just as a way of distracting himself. And possibly provoking the other flyer into speech. But the wind rushing by whisked the sound away, leaving him feeling chilled and suddenly very, very alone.

_And the real problem?_ _I think I'm going to lose him._

The thought flashed through his motherboard, quick as it was horrifying. But true, very true. The feeling, deeper than mere foreboding, crept over him once again.

_I do not know why and I _know _it's not logical and I _know _it makes no sense, but I'm really, really scared that I'm going to lose him. It feels like…fate. Or some variant. It feels as though he's destined to disappear. As he felt that I was destined to steal the Skyboom Shield and return to Megatron that day._

Jetfire had imparted this to him and he had not minded. Partly because he had felt the same himself.

So wrapped up were both flyers in their own thoughts that neither noticed the fact that the wind was rushing by a lot faster than it had been a few minutes ago.

Starscream tried valiantly not to let his gaze wander sideways and failed miserably. His companion was flying on the same altitude, and was almost invisible against the stark white background. Flashes of red and black paint were all that gave away his partner's presence, and Starscream shivered. It was as though if he looked away for one moment, by the time he looked back Jetfire would have slipped away entirely.

_I have to say something_, the seeker realized suddenly. _I have to say something, now, before we go any further. I have to. I need to._

_I _can't _lose him. _

Starscream activated his vocal processor to say something, an apology of some kind maybe. But the words remained frozen in his mouth, unable to come out. There was an agonizing moment as the seeker's emotions went to war with his self-esteem problems, and if his face had been visible right then, it would have been a picture.

No.

Later. He could do it later. Apologize, explain, talk, grovel, anything, it could be done later. Right now, they had a job to do. Concentrate on the task at hand, yes, that was the smart thing to do. Good thinking.

_You gutless worm_, muttered a defeated voice in Starscream's head.

_Shut up_, he thought back murderously.

"_Hey, there's something!"_

The sound of the shuttle's clear, strong voice shook him from his tempestuous thoughts. He adjusted his optic sensors to the direction in which Jetfire was indicating, and saw the rocky mound which peeked out of the snow tentatively, a smear of darkness. It did not look promising; 'high ground', indeed. But better than nothing. And a distraction. Wonderful.

"_Let's take a look at it,"_ he replied over the com-link, swooping low as his partner followed close behind.

And the wind continued to rush. It would be about ten more minutes before either the Autobot or the ex-Decepticon noticed.

And that would also be a problem.

* * *

It took some time. 

Truces had been declared before. For brief periods of time, when the situation was so dire that neither faction stood a chance of escaping alive, temporary truces were sometimes declared. For one reason or another, they were usually broken almost as quickly as they were made. The maximum amount of time on record that a truce between the Autobots and the Decepticons had lasted was seven and a half minutes.

Skyscan stored up little facts like this. Occasionally, when he was in a vindictive mood, he brought them out to snigger at.

But never before had a truce been declared directly between the two leaders themselves. The tension that filled the Autobot main control room could have been scooped out and used as a dish.

"NEVERRRR! YEH HEAR ME?! NEVER, YEH GREAT CULLY BAS-…"

"_Thank you_, Rave, I'm sure we all value your input," boomed Optimus.

The Minicon fell into reluctant silence. Booming from Optimus was a rare thing indeed, but it was rare in the way that most tropical diseases are rare. That is to say, scary, and best avoided.

Exchanging stubborn and distrustful looks all the while and holding one another's gaze every step of the way, both Autobot and Decepticon commanders compared what they had learned from Sideways. With dismay but no surprise, Optimus learned that the spectre's visit had been much the same in both cases; he had appeared, taunted, been a general nuisance and left again. Such was the hallmark of the purple motorcycle.

They spoke (briefly) about possible plans of action that did not mean they would actually have to cooperate. Eventually, however, even Blurr was forced to admit that there really did not seem to be many other helpful alternatives. This did not prevent Rave from offering suggestions. Interesting little suggestions, most along the lines of "Why don't yeh jest scrap yerself, yeh scurvy lummox?"

And then there was deciding on the terms of the truce. In the past, this had usually been a task that lasted longer than the truce itself. As it would undoubtedly have done now, had not both of them been living on borrowed time. The terms were set down simply and quickly; no shooting, no brawling, no stealing, no trickery, no sneak attacks. Until Sideways had been taken care of, of course, and then it was back to business as usual. Both parties would be required to share whatever information they gained on the whereabouts of the enemy.

"We will, of course, be allowed to exit Earth's atmosphere without fear of being shot down from the moon?" questioned Optimus, carefully regarding his nemesis.

Megatron nodded, his expression giving nothing away.

"Very well. From now until the time when Sideways's plans have been destroyed, I declare both factions in truce."

"Excellent, Prime, that _is _nice to know," purred Megatron, and Optimus wondered if he hadn't just made a very big mistake. "Now, if you don't mind, I am going to return to the task of contacting my errant soldiers. Do let me know if you learn anything. Considering my position, and the fact that Sideways is most probably somewhere in space, the Decepticons will probably be able to eradicate him a great deal faster than you."

The words "because we're just better" were unsaid but were heard nonetheless.

"And hurry, Optimus Prime," added the leader of the Decepticons. "The clock is ticking."

With that, there was a flash of colour and the holo-screen went dead.

Optimus sighed and turned to face his comrades and their various Looks.

* * *

Megatron cut the link at last, causing a brief burst of static to erupt from the communications module. He snarled and shielded his optics as, on the other side of the room, Thrust groaned and collapsed forward. 

As the drained tactician went into stasis lock on the ground, Megatron turned to face Demolisher, who was looking at him with wide and alarmed optics.

"But sir!" he protested, confused at his leader's choice of tactics. "Why'd we need to get along with the Autobots? Can't we handle this on out own?"

It was upsetting to him to discover that the war that was the centre point of his existence was now on temporary hold. It was like watching time stand still, or a bird marry with a fish. Megatron shot him a silencing glare.

"Because, cretin," he ground out, having enjoyed the moments spent negotiating with the leader of the Autobot's even less than Thrust had, "we now have only one enemy to deal with, without needing to watch our backs for an Auto-scum attack. We also now have the help we require in getting rid of that accursed virus once and for all, without having to expend extra energy on it. Energy that, may I remind you, we are already short on. Does that satisfy you?!"

Demolisher stood gaping dumbly for one moment before snapping his mouth shut and giving a respectful bow. It made sense. That did not mean, though, that he had to like it.

"Good. Now, would someone sweep up Thrust? We've got work to do."

* * *

Wheeljack very nearly wept in relief when he heard the whine of approaching jet engines. Cyclonus had long since sat down in the snow, as had most of the Autobots, to save energy. The black car had remained upright, determined to show that Decepticons were made of stronger stuff. Determined to show that he was in no way-_no way at all_- an Autobot. Megatron would not have sat down, of that he was quite sure. 

Red Alert was busy examining Mayfly, who was in her alternate mode as a sound tower. Wheeljack kept a watchful optic upon him, just in case the medic decided to disable one of his comrades. Cyclonus had muttered to him that it wasn't necessary, that the medic was, in fact, "okay", but Wheeljack refused to believe a word of it. An Autobot was an Autobot, as far as he was concerned.

His legs and scar were starting to ache, both from the cold and from standing up for too long. Hot Shot had noticed that the ex-Autobot refused to 'lower' himself to the level of Scavenger and Red Alert, and so had also decided to remain upright. The yellow mech was leaning against the mound of rock, keeping his gaze determinedly away from Wheeljack, who was doing much the same.

This was all really quite painful, actually, so Wheeljack was relieved to see Thundercracker and Skywarp appear in the sky. It would not have amazed him to learn that he was one of the first people ever to have been pleased to see the seekers arrive.

"We got one!" crowed Skywarp as he leapt out of the air and landed upon the snow. This move was made less impressive as he slipped, tripped and fell flat on his face, to the amusement of Hot Shot and the sniggering of Cyclonus.

"We've found that 'high point' you were looking for," continued Thundercracker, the marginally saner of the two as he transformed and lightly touched down.

"Oh yeah!" piped up Skywarp, spitting out a mouthful of snow and returning to his announcement. "Big mountain! Real big, just seven miles in…"

He screwed up his face in concentration and peered from one end of the horizon to the other. He leant to the left, and then to the right. He turned around a few times and thought hard.

"…THAT direction," he said finally, pointing to the north.

"Good. Let's go," said Wheeljack shortly, grateful for the chance to move his stiff limbs.

"Wait!" protested Red Alert, looking up at the younger mech. "What about Jetfire and Starscream? They should be back by now."

"Yeah, he's right," commented Thundercracker with interest. "Screamer always did fly faster than us."

Skywarp snorted, still deeply angry with his ex-wingmate. "Maybe being an _Autobot_ makes you _slow,_" he sneered, smirking in a way reminiscent of the red seeker himself as Hot Shot glared at him in outrage.

"They'll see our tracks and follow us when they get back," said Wheeljack hastily, having no desire to split up a fight between the two younger opponents. Out the corner of his optic, he noticed with grim satisfaction as Scavenger gave Hot Shot a quick clout, a warning not to cause trouble right now.

"They might even be there already. And do you really want to wait around for them?", he added, giving Red Alert a questioning look. "We are pressed for time. If this mountain is seven miles away, over this terrain we'll need to hurry if we want to get there before our energy runs out. And we'll still need enough left to climb to the top."

Red Alert looked reluctant but nodded.

"Very well."

As both factions transformed and started to head out, Cyclonus glanced at the horizon that Starscream and the white guy had disappeared in the direction of. He made a small 'hmm' noise of thought as he observed the thick white clouds that were massing over that way, like a tiger lurking in the long grass. He thought of the way that the wind seemed to have picked up imperceptibly in the last five minutes, a fact noticed only by him. He considered mentioning this to one of the temporary leaders.

_Nah_, he thought, glancing at Wheeljack. Right now, the poor guy probably had enough to deal with.


	8. Snow I Am

Snow (I Am)

Air. Light.

The large white mech shut his optics off and reopened them, trying to calm his pulsing spark.

Space.

These were the things Jetfire tried to concentrate on, even as the wind picked up to dangerous heights and the snow pelted down around them as hard as hail. It was unforgivable that he had not seen the storm coming. His sensors and weather detection devices were all tuned to prevent exactly this kind of thing happening. That was, of course, ignoring the fact that this blizzard had thrown all his sensors into disorder and confusion. It took all his concentration now just to keep flying straight.

Yes, by golly-gee, a blizzard. And it was a _big_ one.

_I. Hate. This._

Snow smacked against his wings, sudden gusts of wind threatened to blow him off course. And all of it seemed very, very unimportant, compared to the war of silence and tension radiating between himself and the blaze of crimson who flew beside him.

_And to top it off, a nice healthy dose of claustrophobia to go along with my troubles._ _I. REALLY. Hate. This. _

Although his opinion on the matter had, until now, been neutral, he was rapidly moving onto the side of Snow-Haters Anonymous. He had not had many an opportunity to fly in the ghastly stuff, but oh boy, this was making up for it. Had he been aware of Sideways' intervention thus far, he might have thought that this too was another of the traitor's little tricks. It pressed in around him, like a living force trying to smother his life force. It blinded him, leaving him to rely on only his weakened sensors for guidance.

Jetfire was, by nature, a creature of impulse. He was a great deal more thoughtful and cunning than he let on to most, but impulse was his default setting. It was one that had rarely failed him in the past. He was also hurt, angry, tired and miserable.

Which was why, when Starscream tried to approach him, his reaction was a tad... extreme.

"Jetfire…" murmured the red seeker, as he tried to draw closer to his flying partner, desperate to reopen the avenues of communication as the storm worsened around them. Jetfire only grunted over the com-link and banked away from the other.

Then the anger came into play, rippling through the air between them.

"Slaggit, Jetfire I'm trying to talk to you!", hissed Starscream, a note of urgency in his voice.

The white shuttle replied in a cold voice he did not recognise as his own.

"Really? That's interesting. You didn't feel much like talking earlier, _Screamer._", he growled back, deliberately using Skywarp's name for the ex-Decepticon, before rudely leaping to a higher altitude. As his rockets initiated to blast him into greater speed, he pushed all thoughts of low energy levels and jobs to do and duty out of his mind. He needed speed, he needed to fly and he needed it now. For sweet Primus' sake, he was going _crazy_. The cold, the frustration, the worry, no, this was enough. Many apologies to one and all but he was really, really going crazy.

_Faster._

If he heard Starscream's gasp of fear as he watched his companion draw further and further away from him, he gave no indication.

"_Jetfire…_", pleaded the seeker helplessly, struggling to keep up with the other in the wind. Unlike the Autobot Second, he was not designed to handle extreme weather, having been created more for agility, speed and crafty manoeuvres. Sheer, blizzard-beating brawn was not his function.

Still Jetfire remained silent. A small part of his mind felt a tinge of satisfaction at hearing his partner sound as he himself had felt a few hours earlier, trying to draw some response from him. Most of his mind, however, was full of confusion and growing alarm. Why was he doing this? To Starscream, his… his… friend.

Friend.

This was not the sort of thing you did to friends. But all that, along with all thoughts of duty and concern slipped away. Increasingly unimportant compared to the snow and the possibility of speed and flight.

Apart from impulsive, Jetfire was also a quite responsible creature. However, every so often, his director of mental processes would just hold up a cue card that said 'Screw 'em'. The tired shuttle had had enough, and decided then and there it was time for a break. If only to preserve his rapidly depleting sanity.

Guilt was drowned out as he activated his rockets and shot forward with a wild whoop of delight, blasting far away from the red seeker, who desperately called out his name. But Starscream's words and pleas went unheard, as the distance between them and the seeker's low energy-level had given the com-links a far shorter range.

Thus it was that Starscream watched, horror-struck, as his partner disappeared behind the veil of snow.

* * *

A low moan was drawn from Starscream's vocal processor.

At first, he barely understood why he felt such terror. Then he burst forward after Jetfire, and his fear began to take hold. Through the clouds, a strong gust of wind, a blast of snow that left him momentarily blind and…and… _he was gone. _

He looked left, right, up, down, left again, but caught not a trace of arched wing or shining metal. He accelerated into the thick clouds that had descended over the land, swooping through them like a pin through soup. He called the shuttle's name again and again, the panic in his voice becoming mild hysteria. And he could not see him.

The red jet hung in the gale, buffeted this way and that as his optics scanned everywhere for the other, _his_ other. Shocking cold slapped against him, and he growled, wishing nothing more than to rip the very clouds apart until he saw him. The snow stung his faceplate, raking icy fingers along his wings. It seemed to whisper in his audios, a voice soft and inescapable in this white hell.

_He's gone. He's gone. He's gone forever. I've taken him. You've lost him. He's gone, foolish _seeker

"_NO!_", screamed the seeker, transforming once more and shooting downwards through the worsening blizzard, panic and terror and a peculiar brand of defiance blazing like fire inside him. His engines roared to life even as his limbs offered muffled complaints about how very, very tired they felt. "JETFIRE!"

Only the wind answered.

_He's gone. _

* * *

_I am quite annoyed,_ thought Sideways, very, very calmly, _but I will not allow these constant irritations to prevent me from reaching my ultimate goal. I will remain in control. I will remain focused._

The purple mech spun round and fired yet another laser at yet another meteor fragment, watching with satisfaction as it blew into a million different fragments.

_I will, above all, remain at peace with my inner anarchist._

Thoughtfully, he lowered his arm, glad to note that it had finally stopped quivering in rage.

He should not have been standing upright. This was space. At best, he should have been floating, limbs all akimbo, unable to move without jets upon his form. The fact that he _was_ standing upright, perfectly still with his arms crossed, was offensive to logic and nature itself. But then again, so was he.

All right. So. It was time to up the stakes then. Sideways had no self-esteem and little pride but he did have an ego that stretched from horizon to horizon, and it had been rather badly hurt by Megatron's sudden, rude dismissal. No, no, this simply wouldn't do.

The silence of space gave way to rippling laughter. It would cost him, yes. But what was the worth of anything, if you did not pay for it, and pay well? Nothing. And it would be worth it. If he won, as he was sure of doing, it would be worth it.

_Oh, commander, you will pay for ignoring me,_ thought Sideways with a grin that none could see and none would want to see. Once again, the virus set about bringing his power to bear.

* * *

Had Jetfire been thinking clearly, he would have very carefully taken off his own foot and used it to kick himself in the head. Sure, he had done stupid things before, but this was bigger than all those other amateur attempts. This was it, this was the _piece de resistance_ of his career. This was a whole new level of stupid. This was a level of stupid that Cyclonus himself would have been proud of.

He was lost.

Utterly, totally lost. He felt such a useless, absolute fool. He didn't even know how it had happened. One moment he had been flying, desperate to escape everything, his feelings, his fears, his fears and feelings about the one who flew beside him and the next moment he had found himself trapped within a cocoon of ice and pale death, with the one who had flown beside him nowhere in sight. Nervously he called for him over the com-link, only to find it was all but dead in this unholy blizzard.

_And now, I am officially the Stupidest Moron_ _Ever. I wonder what my award will look like?_

"Starscream? Starscream!" he called as he ploughed on, trying to remember which direction to head in. Not knowing why, Jetfire heard the wheedling note of fear in his voice as time went on and his cries went unanswered. The tips of his wings shook slightly, not only because of the cold.

Now, Jetfire and Starscream had been flying for some time now in the storm which had come so suddenly upon them. Neither had been paying careful attention to their navigational detectors. Both had been otherwise preoccupied with going privately insane. And it was for this reason that neither of them noticed the fact that they had, in fact, completely reversed direction. Their original course had been abandoned long ago. They had ended up heading in much the same direction as Skywarp and Thundercracker, although they had approached their ultimate destination from a different angle entirely.

Simply put, Jetfire had about one second to notice the mountain before he smacked right into the side of it.

* * *

He's gone.

_No._

He's gone.

_No._

He's gone.

_Jetfire, where are you?_

_I wish Megatron was here._

The jet tried to shake the thought away. He wasn't there. He was never there, when it mattered.

_Forget him,_ he told himself. That was the intelligent thing to do.

A whimpering voice arose inside him, scared and lost.

_I can't, I can't, I can't, never, I'm so cold, Jetfire, please, help me, somebody, anybody._

And all the while the dull, numb feeling of almost-certainty.

_You're going to lose him. It's destiny. It's fate. Accept it, seeker._

The storm swirled up around him as he approached its heart. Cold and ice and snow blew everywhere, drowning him. He was blind, terrified. A child locked in a dark room. With a shudder of horror Starscream felt his navigational equipment go offline, finally conquered by the blizzard. Apart from sensors, he was now stumbling in the dark.

It took thirteen seconds of unseemly, floundering panic before the hysteria slammed into something sharp and steely. Instantly, Starscream stopped in mid-air, unmindful of the chaos around him. As his thoughts gelled together, he barely noticed Runway almost fly into his cannons.

Not drowning him. Not again. He had _been_ drowned. A million times over he had been drowned, with words, with blows, with pain. Was he asking for help? Him? Starscream, _seeker_, Second-In-Command of the Decepticon army and Megatron's left hand man? _HELP_?

_**NO.**_

Megatron wouldn't have asked for help. Megatron would have shot himself before begging any unseen deities. What would Megatron have done? Well, that was easy. Megatron would have just been Megatron.

At this thought, red optics went thin. The seeker's erratic movements ceased and some of the shrieking desperation vanished, to be replaced by a breed of quietly deranged triumph. A wild, lunatic laugh escaped from the lips of the creature who had been Second-In-Command of the Decepticon army. He threw back his head and shouted at the sky, his ragged voice seeming to pierce the heavens themselves.

"_You think THIS is going to stop me?"_, he howled. "_THIS_?! _I have faced __**Megatron**____ I will defeat you! I - AM – STARSCREAM!"_

Had anyone been watching the tall red and white figure, filled with wrath, yelling at the sky in a voice like the verbal equivalent of a train wreck, they would have thought that backing away slowly was no longer an option. A flat out run might be appropriate, but most would have been more comfortable if they'd had jet-powered skis welded onto their feet.

Starscream broke off gasping, feeling a great deal better for venting his feelings. Nothing was quite as therapeutic as shouting at something that cannot hear you. Feverishly, the ex-Decepticon looked around for his Minicon partners. Somehow, even though the storm was capable of killing larger transformers, the small beings had stayed barely a hundred feet away from him the whole time, although they had (wisely) backed away quickly in the last minute. Starscream would have marvelled at them, had he been in any approaching a normal frame of mind. They darted towards their appointed master, sensing their task.

"Runway, Sonar, Jetstorm, powerlink!" commanded the screeching seeker. The Minicons complied silently, as always, and within seconds the blue sword shimmered in his grasp. The light it provided was barely enough but it was better than nothing. Snarling, Starscream dove into the storm once more, holding the blade beside him. And thinking.

_Very well._ _So, Megatron would deal with this by being Megatron. But he _couldn't _be Megatron, for all his trying. He'd accepted that fact three million years ago. So, if not Megatron, who else was there to be? _

_Ah, but of course._

_What was that ridiculous phrase Alexis had once tried (unsuccessfully) to teach him? "Be yourself". Hmm. Well, if you thought of it that way…_

He was Starscream, after all. And nobody in the entire universe could be Starscream quite like Starscream could.

"Come on, bastard…" he hissed to the storm between clenched teeth. "Is that all you've got?!"

If he had been listening to his own thought processes, he might have worried that his mind was starting to come unhinged. In a way, it was, although he did not know it. Prolonged exposure to extreme conditions, especially with a lack of energy in their systems, could cause air born fliers to become a bit…strange. Especially if they were already under stress, as both Jetfire and Starscream were. 'Sky-mad' was what seekers called it, and it was one of the many reasons why Megatron tried to avoid conquering planets with dangerously inclement weather conditions. Seekers were often superstitious about such places, even going so far as to say they were 'cursed'. Starscream sneered at this, as he did at all suggestions of the supernatural, but he was aware of the havoc fierce gales and dangerous rainstorms could play with a seeker's wing-sensors and navigational equipment. Such malfunctions could also be achieved by breaching the crunch-zone, although he had never suffered any ill side-effects. Perhaps this was why he had assumed, stupidly, that he would be safe from temporary insanity in this loathsome blizzard.

Neither Jetfire nor Starscream had been paying close enough attention to notice this happening, and would not have been able to do anything about it if they had. The effects of sky-madness were never permanent, but they were often terrifying.

(Cyclonus and Skywarp had never noticed it either. The reason for this was quite simple. They were already insane. Some might even speculate that they had passed beyond the realms of mere insanity, and now existed in some strange world beyond. Probably one filled with regular explosions.)

_This is all awfully familiar…,_ mused a part of him not preoccupied with finding his lost partner and going mad. And it was. Strangely, hauntingly familiar. Not like a memory, but like a memory from book or a story.

He had encountered similar, blinding conditions before, of course; the loathsome Mars mission, for example. Jetfire and he had long since made an unspoken agreement never to mention it again, especially the parts concerning handcuffs. But for an unknown reason, he didn't think that particular embarrassing memory had anything to do with it.

Brushing such pointless worries aside, he plunged into again howling oblivion.

* * *

"Optimus, sir," said Hoist, his tone laden with respect. "This is not intended as insubordination sir, but… well… what… exactly… are you doing?"

The same tone, in fact, that one might use when speaking to a dangerous maniac holding a blowtorch.

"Yes. That is a good question," ground out Skyscan, who sat upon a computer terminal with his arms folded, glaring at the Autobot Leader.

Not for the first time, Optimus was near-amazed by the little Minicon's Cybertron-sized attitude. It was rare for even Blurr the sniper to give Optimus Prime so much as a stern look, never mind an actual glare. Although, fair enough, Scavenger did it on a regular basis. The old trainer had too many times given Optimus a curse and a cuff during training to ever really be in awe of the blue and white mech. Respect yes. Admiration, possibly. Awe, no.

But the way Skyscan looked at him now, purple optics blazing with dislike and anger, came close to insubordination. Optimus found himself equally unsettled and pleased. It did, at least, seem to prove his difference from Megatron in his…utilizing the assistance of the Minicons, as he very carefully thought of it. Had Skyscan fixed Megatron with such a look, one of them would have been ash within seconds. And it might not have been Megatron.

Rave was currently being restrained from giving comment, by a combined force of Nightbeat, Firebot and Blurr. His right hand was flailing for his axe whilst his left attempted to strangle Nightbeat.

Blurr did not glare, but did give his commander one of his best Blank Looks. It was a Look that always made the Autobot Leader feel sure that the blue bot was thinking _If only I were in charge of this crackpot army_. Optimus tried to ignore his increasing motherboard-ache and set about placating his comrades. He explained his reasons, although it was mostly unnecessary. The Autobots knew why he had done it. They just didn't like it.

Eventually, Optimus rubbed the bridge of his nosecone, a peculiar habit he had adopted from Alexis whenever the boys were troublesome.

"Hoist, I would like you to accompany me to the base's lower level. We'll need to take some of Red Alert's tools with us. Blurr, you stay up here with Sideswipe and keep a lookout. We all know that Decepticons aren't to be trusted."

"What are you going to do, Optimus?" asked Alexis curiously, relieved to find a plan developing at last.

"I'll tell you when I find out if it will work," replied Optimus grimly, as he and Hoist walked from the main control room. They were swiftly followed by Fred, Carlos and Rad, and slowly followed by Skyscan, who hopped off the terminal and scurried after Hoist. Alexis sighed and settled herself near the monitor screen, prepared to wait.

The Earthling girl rolled her eyes at the sound of Billy setting about starting a poker game involving himself, the Skyboom Shield Minicons and the stone-faced Blurr.

* * *

_Jetfire, where are you?_

Primus, but it was cold.

_I will find him._

Barely a whisper were the words this time, no longer a screamed proclamation but a silent promise. The chill had begun to affect his vocals, so he was unable to shout out the words as he would have preferred.

_I will find him. _

A dollop of frozen liquid was flung against his face plate and he snarled in frustration. As he wiped it away with one hand, something flashed on the outer edges of his vision. Gasping, Starscream spun round, desperately straining to see what he wanted to. Red optics narrowed, scanning what little he could see of the ground.

He saw him.

For a moment his spark seemed to stop. Clenching tight within and then exploding outwards with disorientating mixture of profound relief and chilled horror. The lingering traces of sky-madness vanished instantly from his motherboard, leaving him mercifully clear of thought. Wasting no time, the seeker swooped down to where the large white mech lay in the snow. He paid no heed to the jagged slopes that the wind almost hurled him against, too consumed with worry.

He landed beside the jet with none of his usual grace, and gazed upon him, trembling with relief and terror. Wires were exposed to the elements. Paint was raked away. One arm was mangled beyond anything he had seen before, making the seeker want to look away. But he was alive. His optics were switched off, not grey with death, and for this Starscream gave a sigh of thanks. A cobalt hand was raised and placed over a white chestplate, feeling the warmth within, the sign of an active spark.

Starscream raised his face to the sky, a casual glance upward to an observer. But to a more attentive observer, it might have been possible to see the faintly triumphant smirked that graced his lips.

"I win," said Starscream quietly, gently running his fingers over Jetfire's torso.

As he looked thoughtfully upon the clouds one last time, something once more caught the corner of his optics. He turned his head and squinted. Maybe it was madness, maybe his logic sensors had come loose, but at that moment the red jet could have sworn he saw a hint of a figure, trapped within the midst of the storm. Glint of silver, a dark face, torso as crimson as his own. The colour of blood. Or roses. He could have sworn he saw a pair of red optics flash upon him, and saw all the despair they held.

He blinked and it was gone, only a play of the light and a spiral of snow.

_Foolishness,_ he berated himself, turning back to his injured other. It would be some time, however, before the image would leave his mind. For the time, he set himself to the task at hand.

_Well, there's quite clearly nothing I can do for him here,_ he thought to himself. _So, first things first._ _We need to get to shelter._

Only later would he find that his voice contained even more of a rasp than before, now almost a grating shriek.

Only now did Starscream glance around him and notice, for the first time, that both fliers were both at the base of a mountain.

* * *

Getting to shelter was a little more tricky.

Finding it was almost no problem at all. Not far off was a hole in the side of the mountain, forming a cramped but otherwise perfectly suitable cave. Excellent.

Getting Jetfire there was another matter entirely. He tried slapping him in the face to wake him up. He even tried lifting him over his shoulder. Eventually he was forced to just drag the white shuttle along as best he could over the snow, wincing every time the other's body was wrenched over a stone, damaging his finish.

"Scrap and sewage, Jetfire, we really need to lose you some…weight…" he grunted, not caring how little sense the statement made. He didn't enjoy the sound of his own voice, but he did enjoy talking. And anything was better than listening to the lonely howling of the wind above.

It took time and back-breaking effort, but he eventually managed to drag his partner into relative shelter of the enclave. Both fliers were covered in a thick coating of snow by the time they arrived, which Starscream brushed from Jefire's wings with care, and shook from his own with irritation.

"Okay," he murmured nervously, when this was done. His miserable, complaining, suicidal sensors duly reported that the storm outside was starting to die down. Now, when they were actually safe from it at last. But of course.

"Bastard…" muttered Starscream, moving to prop his stasis-locked flying partner up against the wall. Right. Now. Okay.

The Air Defence team huddled around the seeker, a fact that would have irritated him had he bothered to notice it. Occasionally they beeped unhelpfully, but for the most part looked on in silent concern.

The cave walls were covered in a thin layer of ice, that reflected the feeble light provided from outside. Upon Starscream's entrance the ice had picked up reflecting his own colours, making the crevice seem bathed in a bright, unnatural red glow. Glancing up, Starscream was relieved to note the absence of those stalgmi…stalacti… stala…whatever the slag they were called. He had no desire to end up as a devilishly attractive, ice cold shish kabob.

On his knees, he carefully removed the front panelling of Jetfire's torso, trying to ignore the dents and scratches it had sustained in the white shuttle's fall. Placing it to one side, he set about making what little sense he could out of the series of connections and fuel lines that lay before him, all the while wondering despairingly why he had never bothered to take a more active interest in medical studies. After five minutes, the red jet was forced to reach a conclusion. Jetfire's internal damage was minor, thankfully, as his fall had been cushioned by the snow. But his energy levels now dangerously low. His healing systems attending to his body were steadily draining his reserves dry. Within half an hour at best, he'd be a well-repaired corpse.

Starscream frowned, and thought.

_He needs energy. There is no energy here. Not even my wing-sword will charge up, for all the good it would do. The Minicons are useless. Optimus Prime and Megatron are not going to be appearing over the horizon with brilliant schemes any time soon. We are, basically, screwed._

Idea.

_Oh. Yes. That would work…_

Sonar beeped anxiously as he observed the thoughtful look that had suddenly washed over his master's face.

"Gentlemen, brace yourselves," he muttered to his wingmates, who nodded in agreement and prepared to dive behind the nearest rock. Meanwhile, Starscream gave a brisk nod, having made up his mind.

It was an old trick, rarely utilized anymore, due to the development of more sensitive pieces of equipment. Clumsy, true, and often considered a crude, barbarian practise. Autobots had not yet quite figured out how the makeshift energy transfer was achieved, and few were really all that eager to find out. Many thought doing it would bring bad luck. Mostly those who thought that bad-weather planets were cursed. Starscream himself suffered no such superstitious fears, and had learnt the trick long ago, just in case. Always keen to be able to think that he could do something that others couldn't.

He replaced the panelling, not wanting to risk any more damage done to Jetfire's internals. He crawled closer to the white shuttle, a look of intense concentration on his face.

As his optics narrowed, a tangled knot of wires rose from his throat, flickering around in his mouth in the manner of a snake-like tongue. The bound cords were an extension of one of a seeker's main energy lines. Now Starscream raised his up to his taste detectors, or 'teeth', as Alexis would call them. He dragged the cable over them, feeling it tear open as it was raked passed one of his sharper, fang-like sensors.

The gash was small, but it glowed with energy, even as it dripped energon. The dark substance trickled onto Starscream's chin as he drew closer to the Autobot Second-In-Command, using one hand to hold his head in place. Alright, easy part over. Now, the difficult bit…

It was a good thing Jetfire had not elected to wear his mask on this particular mission, as that would have greatly complicated things. Starscream had not yet discovered how the shuttle managed to take the damnable thing off. He moved quickly, so as not to allow the energy to start leaking pointlessly from his mouth without reaching Jetfire in time. One ebony thumb drew the Autobot Second-In-Command's ebony lips apart.

Starscream shut his optics off and leant forward, his mouth meeting the other's with an unromantic 'clang'.

* * *

_Brothers_, thought Scavenger as he rolled over the frozen terrain, sending flurries of snow up on either side of his path.

_Brothers._ _Hmm._

It was a difficult word to define in Cybertronian terms, but generally had two basic definitions. In the first, it was used when one spark split two ways at the moment of creation, creating two different sparks for two different shells. Such mechs were privy to each other's feelings, known to most as 'spark-twins'. The bulldozer's optics flicked to the two seeker's, whatweretheirnamesnow, both as crazy as slag, now THEY were probably twins, lunatics that they almost certainly were. Wingmates tended to be.

That is to say, twins, not lunatics (Although, with Decepticons, it was always hard to tell).

_Hmm_. Also weird. If that red seeker nut was ALSO their brother, that meant a spark in a three-way split, a rare thing indeed. It usually resulted in two stronger brothers and one runt. Difficult to say which one the runt was, really, mused the spy.

The other definition was a little trickier. Here Scavenger's optics flicked to Hot Shot.

_It wasn't the same as bonding_. That was important to remember. Bonding included connection in mind, spark, emotion and pain. To be someone's 'brother' implied a connection through trust, love and dependency. White-gold optics moved to look upon Wheeljack at this point, who drove over the snow in dead silence. Brothers fought side by side, lived together and in a few rare cases even shared the same bond-mate. Brothers _needed_ each other. For two brothers to belong to different factions was a case unheard of.

Which was probably one of the reasons why the kid acted like such an arrogant screw-up, sometimes. Brave though he may be, outgoing and likeable though he was, Hot Shot simply did not know how to deal with pain. He had potential. So what? Almost every student Scavenger had ever beaten to a pulp had had potential. Potential didn't mean scrap if the student in question was fundamentally broken.

_And to think, I once thought this was going to be such a nice, quiet job,_ thought Scavenger ironically, who had never had any such delusions. It was enjoyable, though, to entertain the belief that he had not, in fact, expected his life to degenerate to this level of daily madness.

_Hmm._

Ah, well. 'Least it weren't boring.


	9. Taint

Taint

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…"

"Would you **please** stop that?" asked Red Alert stiffly, earning himself the position of the first to break the silence that had, until now, been wallpapered with Cyclonus' incessant chanting of some ridiculous nursery rhyme. Who knew where the Decepticon had picked it up, but it was a tune Red Alert had quickly grown to loathe entirely over the last hour.

Although he could not see it, he was sure he _felt_ the orange mech give an evil grin.

"The wheels on the medic go round and round, round and round…" he sang, pretending to not have heard Red Alert's pleas.

"They're not the only things that will be going 'round and round' if you don't shut up!" growled Wheeljack, who was having to concentrate to avoid skidding. The snow was caught up in his tires and threw delightful wet chunks onto his windshield whenever he slowed down or accelerated. Rather trying, really, especially for one whose normally quite steady band of patience had begun to fray.

Cyclonus shut up out of deference to his lab-partner's sanity, but continued humming maddeningly, paying no attention to Hot Shot's background grumbling.

Far ahead, two triangles of black and blue zoomed over the landscape. The seekers were flying low to avoid using up energy, but were incapable of slowing down. Speed was their natural state of being, and Cyclonus could hear loud whoops of glee as the twin forms tumbled around each other, wings sometimes scraping the ground. Looking at them, the copter-bot felt almost jealous. Why couldn't _he_ have a vehicle mode more equipped to deal with all this snow?, he wondered sulkily.

Transporting Mayfly had proved to be a problem. Seeing as her alternate mode was not designed for transport, the Decepticon had to travel from one place to another on foot, an option that was not an option right now. Consequently, and much to Wheeljack's disapproval, she had elected to travel by perching on top of Scavenger as he ploughed his way over the snow.

Swindle, personally, was having the time of his life. He was five times as fast as any of the other Minicons, and, unlike Longhaul and Windsheer who both sat upon their respective partner's windshields, had chosen to travel under his own power. Commettor, by lucky coincidence, had decided to do the same, although this may just have been because there was nobody left to carry him. He was far slower than the red Minicon and his manoeuvrability over rough terrain was, to put it politely, crummy. A fact that Swindle wasted no time in pointing out to him. With vicious glee the race car overtook the darker Minicon, zooming right across his path and coating him with snow.

_I love my job,_ thought Swindle, as he listened to Commettor beep curses at him with satisfaction.

"There it is!" crowed Skywarp gleefully from far ahead.

Red Alert looked, and saw it. And almost skidded to a screeching halt.

Indeed, it was a mountain. And indeed, it was big. But Skywarp and Thundercracker had been a trifle careless in their description of the mountain. They had said it was big. And it was not big. It was huge. It was massive. It lay against the skyline like a whale thrown up on a beach. It towered. It made Red Alert feel small. And Red Alert was a forty-foot high robot.

On a galactic scale, it wasn't anything much. Jetfire himself could have attested to seeing larger ones back on Mars. But it looked very, very big to Red Alert. Possibly because a part of his mind was utterly aware that they would have to climb every inch of it within the space of a few hours. This would be difficult, even under normal circumstances. But, looking closely, Red Alert could see thick clouds heaving around the top levels of the mammoth outcropping. And, behind them, there were also fast-approaching clouds that had been steadily chasing them across the landscape for the last half-hour.

Red Alert was not at all amused, but also not at all surprised when right at that moment it began to snow.

"Ah, scrap," muttered Cyclonus, who didn't like the feeling of frozen water hitting his propellers. Still, the deranged mech did experience a tinge of satisfaction that, yes indeed, his suspicions had been correct.

"Let's pick up the pace," said Wheeljack in a commanding, trying-to-imitate-Megatron type of voice, suddenly worried that the snow would further hamper their progress. Making the unfortunate mistake of momentarily forgetting that he was dealing with both Decepticons and Autobots here.

"Last time I checked, you weren't Leader of the Autobots," said Hot Shot coldly, the first time anything had been said between the two since they had seen each other.

Even Cyclonus, who remained proudly out of synch with reality at the best of times noticed the tense silence that followed that one.

Then Red Alert said in a loud voice, "Autobots, let's try to move faster! We're making good time, but we need to move faster. This cold is draining our energy supplies badly."

At that moment, Cyclonus, seeming to sense Red Alert's intentions, began talking in a giddy, much-too-chipper voice to Wheeljack, commenting on how much fun this all was and then giggling insanely. Causing Red Alert to wonder if the copter-bot was quite a dumb as he looked. The tension did not exactly drain, but the situation had been successfully defused.

But there would come a time, the medic was quite sure, when it would be impossible to stop those two from boiling over. He just hoped he was hiding behind a big rock when they did.

As it happened, he was.

* * *

_Lost._

_He was lost. Darkness, a great, foggy cloud of it, surrounded him on every side. A child-like panic threatened to overcome him. Here he was in darkness, and there were monsters hiding all around him. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. He turned around, gold optics flashing hopelessly in the blackness, trying to see. He had been aware of cold, of speed…and then of nothing. He was here now, this dark and terrible place. He wanted to wake up but did not think he had the strength or energy. He wanted, needed to go home but…where was that?_

_Light._

_A fresh burst of energy ignited within him, though from what source he had no clue. A tiny trail of light danced across his vision ever so briefly, but what was more important was the sudden feeling of…security he felt. Alone in the dark the lost one felt energy beginning to work its way back into his systems, running into his exhausted limbs like slow-burning fire. All worries and fears slipped clean from the shuttle's mind, as the cocoon of empty darkness around him began to disappear. He was fine, he was free, he was found, he was…_

…safe.

Jetfire awoke, although he didn't know it at first. Not entirely sure why, he pushed his head forward, meeting resistance as he did so. With shock and amazed confusion, the shuttle literally felt pure energy being almost poured down his throat, bringing his tired shell back to life, warming up his overworked sensors. He was also aware of the close proximity of another, feeling the alien energy field as it crackled silently around him.

Starscream was surprised when he felt the other push back, but unable to react. His own reserves were draining quickly, as he poured more and more into Jetfire's body. The seeker felt strangely dizzy, but for the first time ever found that he didn't really mind much. Energon from his torn tongue-like cord dripped between the two mouths as they clamped fiercely together. Their energy fields flowed into and then through each other, completely knocking out both fliers' radar and field-detection units. Sideways could have appeared right then wielding every last gun in the universe and brought the mountain down on their heads, and they still would not have noticed.

During these fleeting seconds, two or three fragmented fragments of memory blew past Jetfire's closed optics, silent and wraith-like as flaming ash drifting from an unseen inferno.

_**A flash of dark armour and a wild grin on an unseen face. Laughter, loud and happy, the sensation of dancing, an outstretched hand. Fear. Screaming. Trust, two other figures (these Jetfire recognised as Starscream's ex-wingmates) flying alongside against a blood-red sky… Pain…**_

Jetfire reactivated his optics as the blazing flow of energy was suddenly stopped. A whine of disappointment almost escaped him, before he felt the cold cave wall against his back, snapping him sharply back to reality. Only now starting to wonder where the slag he was, he sensed the weight leaning against him, sensed the cold, static touch of liquid energon as it congealed against his lips. The second he ignored. The first he knew the cause of. Looking down he was met with the sight of his flying companion, optics shut off, lips also stained with the dark fluid.

Starscream, who had received his share of tiny, fragmented images

_**Angry shouting, joy, misery, something thrown against a wall, the brief memory of a cube of **_**Surge**_** (this Starscream recognised as a drug, commonly taken by the young, foolish and dangerously suicidal) and cruel hands holding him down and a knife dragging against his faceplate…)**_

, now drew away from the other. His head slumped to one side and he rested it against Jetfire's warm neck, completely drained.

Wait…Jetfire's _warm_ neck…?

With an effort, Starscream raised his head as he felt ivory fingers catching him and holding him tightly. A large hand touched the side of his face and he opened his optics, groggily aware that he had delivered far more energy into his counterpart than he had needed to. Indeed, more energy than was safe to give.

_Idiot_, grumbled an inner voice.

Then he looked into Jetfire's glowing, golden and above all _alive_ optics and decided that the inner voice could go jump in a lake of acid. It had been worth it. It had been _more_ than worth it.

"Starscream…?" whispered Jetfire, in worry and befuddlement, cradling his drained companion. "What the…what… Primus… what the heck did you _do_?"

"Gave you energy," muttered the seeker, pulling himself into awareness with difficulty. "Had to kiss you to do it."

There followed a few seconds of silence, which were in turn followed by Jetfire saying, "Oh," in an uncharacteristically small, distant voice.

_AAAH! BUT…but…but…I mean…he's not…we're just…I… but…_, part of his mind whined pathetically, terrified of this new dimension that it was not equipped to deal with. But the fears of that-part-of-his-mind went unheeded as the rest of his mind calmly went over and beat it up. Okay. He was the Autobot-Second-In-Command. He had left a trail of broken sparks across the galaxy two miles wide. He'd taught Optimus Prime how to snog and crowned himself the love-stud of Cybertron. He could deal with this. Dealing with things, after all, was what he did.

Hmm. Interesting fact. He was suddenly more nervous than he had been when declaring a truce with the Decepticons.

Abandoning 'calm' for a lost cause, Jetfire instead made a break for 'rational.' Taking some time to process the new information, Jetfire returned his mind to the here and now, instantly realizing the fact that Starscream had used up practically all his reserves. And a thought occurred that suddenly calmed his racing, high-strung nerves.

"I think you gave me too much," he stated, getting a tired noise of confirmation from the one in his arms. "I think you're going to have to take some back."

At this Starscream's optics reopened, and he scrutinized the other's ever-so-innocent expression.

"You're probably right," he said thoughtfully, after just a moment's pause. "You'll just have to give some back then."

Jetfire blinked at the seeker's frank expression, which looked strange on a face so used to containing only sly, cunning or irritated ones.

"How? I don't know how to-…"

"I'll show you."

He did.

* * *

By the time they reached the base of the mountain, it was not snowing. It was _blizzarding_.

'_Blizzarding'? Is that a word?,_ wondered Cyclonus.

If it was, it was an accurate one. What was happening now could no longer be qualified as 'snowing'. The snow did not fall in light, fluffy flakes that would bring joy to a child's heart. It was as though some vindictive god had targeted them from one high and was now importing snow from nearby planets, just to ensure that every stepped the transformers took was rewarded by a fresh five-inch-thick covering of whiteness.

At first it had been merely irritating. Now it was becoming dangerous. Cyclonus laughed to himself, as he often did when he was getting frightened. Even the seekers had dropped back to fly near him, sticking to 'safety in numbers', he guessed. Cyclonus didn't consider the possibility that the spark-twins had noticed their new 'friend' in danger of being thrown off course by the increasing wind, and had decided to subtly move to either side of the copter-bot, just in case a sudden lively gust succeeded in hurling him into the ground.

Thundercracker and Skywarp did not make a lot of friends. Decepticons, as a rule, tended not to. They didn't even make a great number of ' friends'. The few they did make, they rather liked to keep.

The odd little group skidded to a halt as the rocky edifice loomed before them. To Red Alert's dismay and disgust, it looked even bigger from close up. He transformed, speculating as to the best place to start the monstrous task of climbing.

_Newbie-femme gives me the creeps._

Cyclonus eyed the green femme in question nervously as she jumped off of Scavenger, before the large Autobot transformed. He was not a mech usually victim to even the smallest creep. Cyclonus had seen things that would make an average person start screaming every time they closed their eyes. Not Cyclonus. He could, in a strange way, file those particular memories away, not to be seen until he needed them. And some, he filed very, very deep in an unmarked cabinet, never to be made reference to again.

Not many things scared the copter-bot. As Wheeljack had once thought to himself, Cyclonus had a mind like a corkscrew. It was curvy and twisted, but it was made of steel.

Still, although he wasn't scared now-not quite, he thought, nervously glancing at the mountain- he was a tad nervous.

She didn't _talk_. That was what got to him. She just stood there, observing but never saying anything, other than the occasional screen-translated piece of information. Cyclonus was not used to dealing with people who weren't capable of arguing back. Still, on the plus side, it meant one less person to yell at him, which was probably a good thing.

Come to think of it, she had been giving a lot of those weird neon messages to Red Alert as they had waited for the seekers to return. Hmmmmm. And ambulance-boy had a soft gleam in his expression which Cyclonus suspected meant that Super-Medic had a plan.

As Cyclonus brushed snow off what parts of his propeller he could reach, he watched Red Alert from out the corner of his grass-green optics. Red Alert, who was currently rummaging around in one of his many sub-space pockets. After a minute of making unsatisfied "hmph" noises, the blue Autobot finally smiled and withdrew from thin air what looked to Cyclonus like a whole lot of chains.

Red Alert turned to find Cyclonus staring intently at him, and almost jumped a mile. For some reason, the insane helicopter disturbed him more than any other Decepticon he had ever encountered. Heck, he disturbed him even more than some of his Autobot team-mates did, and that was impressive.

"Whatcha doin'?" queried Cyclonus, confusion evident on his orange, black-streaked face.

Resisting the urge to shiver, Red Alert instead held up what he had located in his sub-space storage compartment; climbing equipment. Makeshift and probably not up to the task of this mammoth piece of rock before them, but still better than nothing.

"Well," muttered Wheeljack, seeming a lot less determined and confident at the sight of the mountain, "I suppose we'd better get moving."

Mercifully, Hot Shot did not comment, although the sullenly silent mech did give Wheeljack's back a simmering glare, accusing him for the crime of daring to open his mouth. Red Alert thought he might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw Wheeljack flinch as Hot Shot's optics, narrowed in accusation, as though he could sense the look without seeing it.

With grumbles, curses and sighs of resignation, Autobots and Decepticons alike transformed and began to climb.

* * *

The lower levels of the Autobot Earth base.

Wow.

What a party. What an _absolute ball._

_Join the _army_, they said. It's a life of _glory_, they said. Why did they never mention the number of times I would be trudging through a dank, cruddy, depressing-as-scrap tunnel below ground level? Why does no one ever warn me about these things?_

Hoist groaned as yet again he bumped his head on the rocky ceiling. For, he was embarrassed to admit, the fourth time in ten minutes, though this was mostly due to being distracted by the pointless task of trying to scrape some of Swindle's 'art' off with his hands and fingers. All he had achieved so far was smearing the marks so he now look as though he had been attacked by a maniac with a dead branch dipped in purple paint. Yes, Hoist just loved his job sometimes.

_When I get my hands on that lousy race car I'm gonna twist him up 'til he looks like one of Fred's 'pretzels'…_

"Optimus, sir, what exactly are we doing?"

Behind them, the kids ran to keep up. Skyscan had long since caught up and now sprinted alongside Hoist, having absolutely refused to allow himself to be carried by any of the larger transformers. Optimus Prime strode ahead, occasionally glancing around to ensure that they were going the right way.

Now he turned his head to Hoist, without slowing down. And the shorter blue bot was delighted to see a glint of cunning in the Autobot Leader's optics. It wasn't a thing often displayed there, but now it was welcome because it meant the same wonderful thing it always did; Optimus had a plan.

"We're going to need energy if we want to defeat Sideways," he began. Hoist nodded, cramming the word 'duh' back down his throat. Now was not the time for sarcasm, tempting though it was.

"The base has energy, though most of it's in storage. Remember, it used to be made for travelling to different star systems. Seeing as it doesn't require that energy anymore, we should be able to make use of it, if only for a while."

He then walked several steps before turning back in confusion to look at Hoist. Hoist, who had stopped dead and was now staring at him as though Prime had just sprouted another limb. His mouth hung open and his optics dimmed in the weak light.

"…The base?" he said numbly, after a few seconds hesitation.

"Yes.", replied Optimus, with beatific calm as he continued forth once more.

"…Energy from the base?" asked Hoist again, as the children caught up behind him.

"Yes."

"…Energy? From the base? From _OUR_ base? The vase which is ours, sir?"

"Is something wrong, Hoist?"

For the second time in one day, Hoist wondered if their fearless leader's all-prevailing wisdom had fallen off its perch at last. Optimus just looked so innocent standing there, even after suggesting that they use the energy of **their own base**. Their own base, which was their early warning system, their Minicon alert system, their outside defence system and their only-damn-means-of-ever-getting-home-again system.

Hoist scratched his head and tried to look anything other than hopelessly confused.

"Just wondering if you've really…thought…about this one, sir," he mumbled, trying to convey all the things he was trying to without actually saying anything that might hurt Optimus' feelings too badly.

To his surprise and slight alarm, Optimus laughed.

"Don't worry, I've thought about this," smiled the Autobot Leader as they walked, as though reading the shorter mech's thoughts. "The base can take it. She's still got enough reserves to take her to Vector Nineteen if we want too. All we're going to need the ship for is to take us to Cybertron. There will still be plenty of juice left over to operate her with while we're still on Earth. It's just a matter of drawing to correct amount of energy from the core generator. Which is where we're headed."

And there was another phrase Hoist didn't like the sound of. He was beginning to wish that Liftor had come down here with him, the Minicon having less of a tendency to panic than he did.

"'Draw energy from the core generator'? Sir, not to second guess you here, but isn't that a little…risky?"

"Not if we do it correctly."

"And if we don't?"

"I find it never helps to dwell on the negative, Hoist."

"Whatever you say, Optimus," grumbled Hoist, thinking, _Translation; there won't be enough left of us to fill a test tube. They'll be scraping our splattered parts off the walls for the next two weeks. Generated energy is _dangerous_, dammit…_

"We're we going, Hoist?" queried Carlos curiously, as Hoist stooped to pick up the lagging Fred and place him on one shoulder.

The Autobot continued walking, muttering something Carlos couldn't quite hear, but thought sounded a lot like, "to the scrap heap, kid. To the scrapheap."

* * *

After half and hour of climbing, the wind had still not died down, nor had the ferocity of the snow-storm decreased. Red Alert had to shout to make himself heard.

"We need to find shelter!"

From a little way beneath him, the medic heard Cyclonus snarl something like, "Yah don't SAY?"

Scavenger was above him. Cyclonus and Mayfly were below, whilst Skywarp and Thundercracker were at roughly the same place. Wheeljack and Hot Shot were both the furthest behind, worryingly. All were connected by a set of cables which Red Alert had worked together. A set of cables that still looked far to slim for his liking. Especially considering that the very rock he was now clinging to for dear life felt like it was weaving from side to side in the gale.

It was times like this that Red Alert wished his creator had had the good sense to give him more than one hand.

Wheeljack looked up as Mayfly gave him a light kick to attract his attention. Momentarily confused, his optics widened in realization as the green Decepticon shoved her arm-screen in his face. Squinting, he read,

_THE AUTOBOT MEDIC THINKS IT IS WISE TO FIND SHELTER. CYCLONUS WISHES ME TO TELL YOU THAT HE AGREES._

The ex-Autobot growled to himself. Much as he was loathe to admit it, the blue mech was right. It was irrational to continue in this squall. It was taking a large amount of power just to keep moving upward, and their progress was slow at best. But…

Wheeljack looked up into the green transformer's face, which somehow managed to remain emotionless, even clinging to the side of a mountain in the midst of a blizzard that seemed to have blown straight out of the Pit.

"Ask the medic if he's seen anything resembling shelter anywhere nearby.", he shouted up at Mayfly, who nodded and moved upwards on the craggy slope to relay the message to Cyclonus.

Behind him, a young voice gasped in surprise and gave a yelp as Hot Shot just avoided losing his grip and tumbling into the nothingness below.

Dark fingers tightened on rock as Wheeljack shut off his optics and clenched his taste detectors.

_How many times had he heard that sound? The yellow mech was so prone to trouble that Wheeljack had become carefully intone with his various yelps and noises of alarm. There was, to Wheeljack, a world of difference between a 'hey, I just stepped in something gross!' yelp and a 'where the krell did that gun come from!?' yelp. Without looking back, without even concentrating, he could see Hot Shot's open, youthful faceplate bend into fear and excitement as he traversed the mountain side. Ah, yes, his faceplate. His always expressive, always innocent, always so-damn-__**UNSCARRED **__faceplate._

_Turn around. Give him a hand up. Give him a grin, a smile, anything. Some way of saying "it's okay, I forgive you, are we still friends?"_

No. It wasn't okay. It would never be okay. He didn't forgive him and they were no longer friends. Those days were over and done.

_Move on._

Yes. Logical. He was scarred and broken and hardened. Hot Shot was still Hot Shot. Would always be Hot Shot, young, brash, outgoing, untainted by anything.

_Damn him. _

Wheeljack's head snapped up as a lime-coloured hand rapped smartly on his head. If Mayfly noticed the feral, haunted expression he bore, she gave no indication. Instead, she gestured to her screen again, holding it down for Wheeljack to read.

_THE MEDIC SAYS HE HAS NOTICED A PLACE OF SHELTER. HE SAYS WE SHOULD GET THERE QUICKLY. HE WISHES TO EMPHASIZE THAT THIS IS ONLY A SUGGESTION, NOT A COMMAND OR ORDER. CYCLONUS WISHES ME TO TELL YOU ONCE MORE THAT HE QUITE FERVENTLY AGREES. SHALL I TELL THE MEDIC TO LEAD US TO HIS SHELTER?_

It was all Wheeljack could do to nod.

* * *

Scavenger had been in some cruddy dumps in his existence. These included the waste plantations of the planet Vector, the stinking swamps of the planet Urr and the smelting pits of the Decepticon High Command's deserted home, planet Charr.

And he had been in worse shelters than this. However, given the circumstances, he really was hard pressed to remember them.

It wasn't a shelter really. It was a flat plateau of rock in the mountainside, carved by who knew what avalanche. It was covered in snow that went up to his knees. It had, however, a slight overhang that offered moderate shelter from the wind. It was unfortunate that this overhang only overhung so far, meaning that the members of two factions that had been at war for four million years were now forced to squash together for protection from the storm.

To Scavenger, this felt rather like compressing plastic explosive.

"Hey," said Hot Shot suddenly. "We still haven't seen Jetfire or Starscream. They should have caught up with us by now."

Red Alert hesitated, turning to look at Wheeljack with apprehension. His gaze wavered between the deserter and the two seekers, who were now flinging snow at each other gleefully, untroubled by the whistling winds.

"Wheeljack," he said tentatively, deciding to address the Decepticon directly. "I was wondering-…"

He hadn't finished talking before Wheeljack sighed, nodded and turned to face the two brothers.

"Hey! Nuts and Nuttier! Time to make yourselves useful again."

Thundercracker and Skywarp paused in their game and turned to look at him with identical quizzical looks that reminded Scavenger violently of Starscream. In two identical blurs of colour they moved to stand before Wheeljack, endeavouring to look innocently keen at the prospect of a mission.

"Get into the air, for Primus's sake don't crash. I **don't** want to have to haul both your carcasses back. Find the big white Autobot and Starscream. If they're dead, leave 'em."

At Red Alert's gasp he turned and gave him an unfriendly look, saying, "What? We don't exactly have the time or resources to waste on honouring the dead."

Red Alert's mouth opened and closed a few times, before it set in a hard, cold line of disapproval. He nodded stiffly at the Decepticon and moved away, muttering un-medic worthy things to himself.

As Wheeljack watched the two seekers disappear into the clouds, he felt a cold hand close over his spark. He shivered and, obeying some deep instinct, turned to where a brightly coloured form sat at the other side of the overhang, not quite in the snow.

He was not surprised to see Hot Shot staring right back at him.


	10. Intermezzo

Intermezzo: Reflections

_He had been younger than most when going into the War_ _Academy. _

_Most went- one way or the other- a few years after their activation. Not he. No, sirree. He'd been signed up and enrolled in the Academy within the first month of his existence. The insignia bright on his shoulder by the time he was fourteen Cybertronian years old. _

_Scavenger and Red Alert could, with some persuasion, talk for hours about the _Golden Age

_(Ah, yes, the famous _Golden Age _on Cybertron, the four hundred years when there _hadn't _been a war. The _Golden Age_, which had come to such an abrupt end five million years ago.) _

_Not Hot Shot. He had no recollection of this forgotten era, when most of Cybertron's major scientific advancements had been made, when the skyline of Iacon had not been the tattered and jagged wreck it was today. If asked about that lost time, Hot Shot would have shrugged. He honestly could not remember when they had not been at war. _

_War. And comradeship, of course. The two ideals he had been built and raised upon, the two shining pillars in the sky. It's Us against Them, he had been told, as had all others of his age. _

Not _that there were many of his age around anymore. The Academy had been closed fifty years after his enrolment, just enough time for him to complete basic training. The result of this was that a good number of mechs his age had been flung into battle with barely enough skills to fight off one trained Decepticon, never mind the entire army. And the result of this was that Hot Shot was one of only a few of his age-group still alive._

_Oh, many others had since been created, of course, Sideswipe among them. The young warrior's dismal fighting skills were a result of the times; too few teachers and trainers spare to teach and train young mechs for war. _

_The Academy._

_You never said 'the Decepticon_ _War_ _Academy_' _or 'the Autobot_ _War_ _Academy_'_. It was always just 'the Academy'. It was spoken of with something that might be mistaken for reverence, although also with something that could just as easily be mistaken for hate. _

_You went into the Academy as a mech. You came out as a soldier. Or, in some Decepticon cases, you came out dead._

_Not the point._

_The point- _he _had also gone there. He had been one of the first mechs that _he _had seen upon signing in. _He _had been young, very young. Younger than Sideswipe had been when Hot Shot had first seen him. _

_And _he'_d been…weird._

_Not that Hot Shot wasn't used to weird, even at that age. At the Academy, four-eyed monstrosities crawling out of inter-dimensional rifts were as common as the explosions (very). But _Wheeljack _was weird in a whole new way. Wheeljack, in many ways, seemed to have invented a way of being insane without actually being insane…_

_But then, Wheeljack could invent anything. Hot Shot had learned that when, one day, he had whined of how he wished there was a way of keeping his stored energon cubes nice and cold, whereupon the other had looked thoughtful before wandering off muttering to himself. Three hours later he had reappeared, announcing to a stupefied Hot Shot that a cooling device had been created and worked into the mechanisms of his storage module. Wheeljack could invent anything._

_Could he still do that? Or had that talent, along with everything else, vanished in the fire?_

_Hot Shot didn't know. And he hated it._

_He hated not knowing. He hated not knowing Wheeljack, Wheeljack, his friend and companion in battle and training, his brother. _

_He hated hating him._

_But that wasn't the worst part. Not by far. What he hated the most, more than any Decepticon, more than anything in the whole wide universe, was not being able to do anything but hate him._

"What?"

The word snapped Hot Shot violently from his reverie. He came back to reality and looked into sea-blue optics, seeing with horror that they were looking back.

"I…uh…nothing."

He turned his gaze away, furious with himself for having been caught staring at the other. He drew his legs up to him, concentrating every inch on not noticing that Wheeljack had noticed that he had noticed that he had noticed.

Red Alert watched as, after a few seconds, Wheeljack also looked away, and heaved an internal sigh of relief. He exchanged a quick glance with Scavenger, whose canny optics had noticed more than either of the young warriors had noticed.

"I would suggest we get twenty minutes recharge time in. It'll save energy and give our systems some time to recalibrate, and if the storm hasn't died down by then we're going to have to keep climbing anyway. We're down to two and a half hours, if we're lucky."

He was greeted with a few reluctant nods. Scavenger flopped down on the snow, placed his hands behind his head and fell cheerfully from conscious thought. Within five seconds he was snoring loud enough to make Red Alert worry about the possibility of an avalanche from above burying them in two thousand tons of snow.

Wheeljack rolled on his side, seeing the sense in the medic's words. On the other side of the plateau he sensed Hot Shot doing the same thing, and shook his head in a futile attempt to cleanse it of the yellow mech. It was two minutes before Wheeljack sank into light recharge, hiding from the hate in the darkness of oblivion. He was shortly followed by Hot Shot.

Only Red Alert did not follow suit.

For five minutes he simply sat motionless on the snow, telling himself to lay down and recharge. No good. His body simply refused to obey, declaring that it had no need of recharge. Only to be expected, he supposed. He recharged rarely, but regularly. In between such times as he did, he snatched a few minutes here and there whenever his shell demanded it. When his shell didn't demand it, he simply pushed himself onward, performing whatever tasks he needed to and several that he didn't. As a result, he was incapable of forcing himself into slumber as Scavenger and Blurr could do.

But here there was nothing to do. Merely to sit and watch the snow and wait until it stopped.

Red Alert's finger began to tap the ground rhythmically, an irrational sort of impatience rising within him.

_Wait…where is Cyclonus?_

The thought came as a welcome relief. At last, something to worry about! Joy! Rapture! Red Alert was beginning to feel quite at home. He smiled a little smile as he stood and headed off to the latest task.

* * *

"Wow," said Fred. He said it very quietly.

Fred had never seen the main generator before. He had, in fact, very little in the way of a clue as to what it was supposed to be. But he didn't give it much thought. Things that inspired him to heart-stopping, ear-piercing levels of terror he never gave much thought to.

He was angry.

Billy hadn't come.

That had sucked. That had been _cold_. That had been major, big-time low.

Fred scowled to himself, although inside he had expected little more. Billy was a coward, when all said and done. Billy got scared of snakes, of spiders, of bigger kids and bigger attitudes than his. Billy got scared of a lot of things.

Fred got scared too, had been getting scared a lot more lately with the addition of giant evil robots into his life, but there was a difference. Fred didn't run. Or, at least, tried not to. Made an effort, at least. But Billy always ran. Billy the smart kid, the wise guy of the tenth grade, the sass-mouthed joker who had spent more time in the principal's office than the principal himself, always ran. When they'd once been a roughing up a couple of kids and this one big kid had come up and told them to stop it., Billy had bolted instantly. Fred had hung around to rearrange the young punk's face first, before fleeing after his friend. Billy always ran.

He hadn't wanted to come with Optimus and Hoist because he was scared. Fred didn't mind it especially. Billy had always been the smarter of the two, the fast one. Let Billy be smart and shrewd and save their rears by lying to the parents. Let Fred be the strength and the power, dealing with whoever dared challenge them. That was how it worked. Or how it had worked.

But Billy had a new best friend now. Spiffy, good ol' Rad, the perfect teen. Leaving fat ol' Fred Dune to play in the dust as he went off and frolicked with his new bunch of friends. Not that Carlos was so bad, Fred guessed. And Alexis could be pretty cool when she wasn't bending his ear backwards.

Still. Still. There was a difference. Running away when some big kid came hustling up, that was cool. That was survival. But hiding up at the top of the base while Fred went off to explore the big scary tavern with monsters in it on his own? Cold, man. Very cold.

So he was angry. Or had been, at least. But right now, all he could be was awed.

The generator stood in the centre of the cave, and took up most of it.

Think of a giant porcupine.

Then make it blue and give it five times as many quills as any of its brethren. Quills that lie in every direction, as though they have just received a violent electric shock. Make those quills thick, high voltage pylons for carrying energy to the main base, that disappeared into the walls. Think of the quills/pylons as being five times longer than the porcupine/ generator itself. Imagine this porcupine placed in the middle of a dark cavern, dimly pulsating with a faintly sinister blue glow.

Take away any other features usually associated with the average giant porcupine (eyes, mouth, paws, fleas, etc.) and you have some idea of what greeted Hoist as he entered the Main Energy Generator Room.

"Wow," Fred repeated. There didn't seem to be much more to say.

"We're all going to die," said Skyscan flatly.

Hoist considered his options carefully before speaking.

"Sir," he said in the strongest, best noble-Autobot-war-hero voice he could manage without choking, "are you sure this is going to work?"

It was a question that has been asked many, many times throughout the ages, on almost every planet in the galaxy. Little matter whether the species is mammalian or reptilian, vertebrate or invertebrate, Autobot, Decepticon, neutral, human, even the strange and mystical purple glowing creatures on the planet SlightlyStrange. It makes no difference. Sooner or later, on every planet in the universe, a doubtful underling has regarded their boss and his manic grin/calm smile and asked in a nervous but very respectful tone if he really knows what he is doing.

The sheer serenity on Prime's face as he turned to look at Hoist was enough to freeze white and blue mech's fluid.

Optimus noticed that Hoist seemed a bit nervous at the thought of using the generator for energy. He sighed.

"Hoist," he said, trying to sound as calm as he could, trying to ignore the relentless voice in the back of his head as it reminded him that they were almost down to two hours. "I give you my word, it's safe. There may be a little bit of backlash, but nothing powerful enough to destroy us. I promise you, I would not even be considering this if I could think of a single alternative."

Hoist was not the only one who detected the faint note of tiredness and pleading in the Autobot leader's voice. Fred's milky-blue eyes widened. Whoa. Optimus, All-Powerful Good Guy, was feeling the effects of this strength-draining thing just as much as the others. He was just hiding it better.

Fred knew _all _about that. For no particular reason, he found himself thinking of Billy.

Hoist regarded his commander in silence before giving a firm nod and striding forward. Rad and Carlos hung back at the cavern's entrance, as Fred clung to Hoist's shoulder and focused all his will-power on not throwing up.

"Well," grunted Hoist as he came to stand beside Optimus, looking at the generator with a kind of resentful acceptance, "what've we got to do?"

Behind his faceplate, Optimus smiled, and began to explain.

* * *

Cyclonus shut his optics off and concentrated on the frigid air around him.

Good. Good. Nice. Ice. Nice and ice and cold. _Wish my guns were working._

The thought slogged up to him and he nodded. Yes, very much he wanted his guns to be working. Then he could shoot something. Shooting something always made him feel better. Didn't matter what it was. Usually more fun if it moved, though.

The snow landed on his blade shoulders and he didn't bother with shaking it off. What was the point, the damn stuff would just reappear and coat him with cold all over again.

He'd moved away from the others, not quite knowing why. Going a little way higher up the mountain, he'd discovered another little area of relative flatness, and sat there now, absurdly delighted at having found a place that was all his.

_I hereby claim this part of the mountain in the name of the Decepticons!,_ he thought, and laughed softly at himself. _Pity I don't have a flag._

A thought occurred and he leant forward, causing the light coating of powder to fall away. With one finger and a look of intense concentration on his face, he traced the word 'CYCLONUS' in the snow, and sat back to admire his handiwork with a sardonic grin. Great, yeah. Screw the Autobots, screw the Decepticons, this fraction of turf was all his!

The grin slipped away as he drew his knees up against the windows of his vehicle mode and wrapped his arms around them.

_I want to go home._

The thought was so totally unlike him that he repeated it in his mind, to make sure he'd actually thought it. Yes…was true, too.

"I want to go home, slaggit," he hissed at the chill air, knowing that if it had a voice it would have laughed at him.

_Home? Oh, Cyclonus. Surely you jest? You _have _no home!_

_Yeah,_ he thought, _but I still want to go home._

Cyclonus did not like having time for introspection. Usually, even having time for actual thought was unpleasant. Not that there was much else to do, of course. Lessee…stare at the snow, think, stare at the snow, think, stare at the snow summore… snow was weird, come to think of it. It wasn't really solid and it wasn't really liquid and it was soft and heavy at the same time and…and…

The copter-bot shook his head, aware that his thoughts were becoming jumbled and disconnected again. He hated it when they did that. Often it happened without him even noticing. That was the worst. That was kinda scary sometimes, when he'd try to remember what he'd been thinking about for the last twenty minutes and found that he couldn't even remember where he'd been for the last twenty minutes…yeah, that slagging _sucked_.

It was so quiet.

_And that sucks too_, he thought mutinously back at the realization. _Just like the snow does, and the Autobots, and the stupid medic, and Wheeljack going nuts without even thinking about it, and Megatron, and my guns not working and this place…this place…_

But the quiet was the one that was currently needling him. He didn't quiet. Quiet usually meant that something bad was about to happen, which was _good _because it would relieve the boredom, the awful, circuit-freezing boredom, but first it was always quiet so it would be a bad thing the Cyclonus didn't even have time to brace himself for and the quiet itself was boring and it let him think too much and…

_Stop. It_, he thought fiercely, his taste-sensors clenching tightly together.

When there a fight going on, yeah, he could think then. Then he could think like there weren't no tomorrow, then he could shoot and blow things up and admire the way the colours and fire danced as destruction and chaos reigned supreme, then he could lose himself in the madness and everything was just fine. When there was a fight, then he felt like everything was right in the world and he could do anything and be as normal or nuts as he wanted.

And then, when the fight was over, he generally felt like the most useless empty piece of scrap that ever there was. Like a piece of metallic space debris torn off a huge, powerful spaceship that just happened to stray into the path of a meteor. Blown up and ripped to shreds and Cyclonus the Psycho just flung out into the void as a forgotten piece of the wreckage.

The icy wind brushed up against his sensors, whispering across his back in a voice that seemed just for him. The Decepticon's head snapped up.

_Come._

Intrigued suddenly, Cyclonus pushed himself off the ground and stumbled to his feet. He took a few tentative steps forward as another idea grabbed him.

Before him was a wall of white, clouds and snow that had lessened fractionally in the last five minutes. Above was much the same, although he didn't suffer from the claustrophobia that Jetfire or Skywarp experienced when looking up. He stood gazing at the white sky for a moment, apathetically wondering where the two seekers had gotten to by now.

And below…

His gaze trickled downwards and a gasp escaped his vocal processor. Below loomed the void, the snow disappearing into a whirling landscape of ivory, sucking it in like a vacuum. Death and doom incarnate in swirling clouds. His optics couldn't see to the bottom, and a distant part of him thought giddily, _Wow, we climbed that far? Neat!_

The rest of him kept staring intently downwards.

It was _very _high up, wasn't it?

Transfixed, he began to move slowly forward. Footstep followed rhythmic footstep until he found himself standing on the edge of the abyss, gazing blankly down into the infinite emptiness below. Slowly, so slowly, he raised his arms, like a tightrope walker trying to keep his balance. But Cyclonus had lost his balance a long time ago, yes indeed, and now he was falling, tumbling, helpless, about to hit the ground, hypnotized as he stared into infinity, not quite in control of his movements.

His arms continued rising until his fingers clenched to fists high above his head, a vertical line of colour in the bleak blankness everywhere. The wind snapped at his feet and whipped around his wire-thin waist, encouraging and snarling, trying to pull him onwards.

Cyclonus's mouth fell open and he shut off his optics.

"Hey, be careful up there!"

They flew open again. Cyclonus spun round, his arms instantly dropping and coming into the firing position. He froze, an expression of feral terror on his face, as he saw the medic standing behind him.

* * *

As Red Alert saw the copter-bot raise his arms and go strangely still, he was sure he felt his spark give a strange, violent blip. A sensation of horror and helplessness washed over him, and he opened his mouth, blurting out the first thing that came into his head.

"Hey, be careful up there!"

He saw Cyclonus spin and raise his arms to fire, before seeing Red Alert standing in the snow looking confused and nervous. Red Alert almost took a step back, but stopped when he saw the look on the copter-bot's face.

The guns were lowered and the expression faded away, killed by the blinking confusion.

"…What're you doing here?" asked Cyclonus, peering at the blue Autobot in suspicion.

"Uh…I was just looking around…and I…noticed you'd gone, so…um… Just…checking on you, really," Red Alert fumbled, glaringly aware that he'd just delivered on of the most inarticulate sentences of his existence.

The other stared at him in silence, the wind that had torn at his shell seconds ago now starting to die away. There was an expression on his faceplate that Red Alert was completely unable to interpret, and Red Alert was _good_ at interpreting expressions.

"Why don't you come down from there?" he tried again, glad to hear the nervousness fading from his voice as the shock slowly disappeared. "It doesn't look safe."

The other transformer did not reply, but leapt down from the ledge he'd been standing on. He tripped, caught his balance, and looked up at Red Alert again, the same disturbing, unreadable look in his optics. Quiet loomed like a big purple tyrannosaurus, threatening to swallow them whole. It occurred to Red Alert that being unable to talk was hardly appropriate, considering that he still had a number of questions to ask the helicopter. But something about the situation would not allow his vocal processor to formulate the words necessary to set him free of this psychopath, to close the cover on the whole business, to let him get on with his so-called life.

"Whatcha doin' here?"

The question was asked purely to break the silence, but it was effective. The tyrannosaurus fell down dead as Red Alert responded, focusing on Cyclonus's toxic-green optics, noting for the first time that they _weren't_ insane. The medic had seen lunatics and madmen in his days, and they'd all had the same twisted gleam in their optics - a gleam noticeably absent here. However insane the copter-bot was, he didn't have insane optics. Difficult to decide whether this was a good thing or bad, really.

"I came to keep an eye on Hot Shot," he heard himself reply, wondering why he was doing so.

"Oh."

Realization dawned on Cyclonus's faceplate, and a rueful grin worked it's way across his face. "Him too, huh?"

Seeing Red Alert's obvious confusion, he gave a croaking chuckle, and said, "Lemmee guess; he's been acting weird, he's been glaring at everything that walks, moves and opens its mouth, he's been talking less than normal and nobody knows why? Yeah, Jack's like that too."

Red Alert lost the battle to keep his mouth shut. It practically flapped in the breeze as he stared at the Decepticon in amazement. It came as something of a shock to discover that someone else had put the pieces together, even more so to find out that that person was _Cyclonus_.

He recovered adequately to say, "Do you have any idea what's wrong with them? The last time Hot Shot got like this, it had something to do with having nightmares. Nightmares about Wheeljack."

Even as he spoke, the medic was astonished at himself. Good grief- not only was this private, patient-doctor information, it was practically giving information to the enemy! Madness.

"Oh yeah, that would explain a lot," nodded Cyclonus, who briefly considered telling ambulance-boy about the many times he'd heard Wheeljack burst from recharge with an unholy cry of fear. But no - Wheeljack was his lab partner. There was something like friendship there, as much as there could be between two self-centred nutjobs. He trusted Wheeljack not to let him handle anything too explosive and Wheeljack trusted him not to repeat any knowledge of his night terrors to any living, functioning soul.

"See, from what I can figure," continued the copter-bot, not sure why but delighting in telling the all-knowing, know-it-all medic something he didn't already know, "it was 'round about this time a coupla vorns ago that Jack and the brat…uh…went their separate ways, if you know what I'm talking 'bout. The fire?"

Red Alert nodded. Oh yes, he knew about the fire. Hot Shot couldn't stop talking about the fire, couldn't stop talking about bow he'd had _absolutely no choice_ in leaving Wheeljack behind as he went to get help. Privately, Red Alert wondered who the yellow mech was trying to convince.

It was strange, in retrospective. The Autobot Head Medic standing in the snow chatting to the unstable and possibly entirely deranged Cyclonus the Screwy Decepticon about the mental conditions of two of their own, after having just stumbled upon him standing on the edge of a cliff looking drunkenly, despairingly desperate than Red Alert had ever seen anybody look. But just then, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

"Hey," said Cyclonus suddenly, looking up. "The snow's stopped."

And indeed, the soft, icy flakes had ceased to fall almost three minutes ago. Cyclonus's grin was so wide and elated at the simple change in the weather that Red Alert felt a small smile grow on his pale lips.

From below, shouting and the sounds of metal clanging against metal broke the still, almost peaceful air, causing both mechs to jump. They exchanged horrified glances as both realized that they had, purely by accident, left the two ex-brothers alone, together, on the side of a mountain.

"Aw, scrap…" muttered Cyclonus as they both turned and ran towards the slope, shuffling down it as quickly as they could.

* * *

"Sir," said Demolisher in his best loyal-Decepticon-just-trying-to-be-helpful voice, "are you sure this is going to work?"

"Shut up, Demolisher," explained Megatron.

Despite this reassurance, Demolisher remained anxious as he strode after his commander down the stretching corridor. Megatron had a plan (Megatron _always_ had a plan), but Demolisher wasn't entirely sure if it was a plan he'd recommend to anyone who appreciated retaining a full set of limbs. He didn't even know what it was yet, but had collected enough snippets of information to make him very, very nervous.

Impact followed close behind, pausing only occasionally to throw looks of distaste at the broken, un-repaired walls of the Decepticon base. Thrust had been left behind in the care of Tidal Wave, claiming in a whimpering voice that he was too weak to walk. Personally, Demolisher suspected it was more to do with the fact that the stealth jet was too smart to follow orders. Orders that involved, say, their leader leading them down a long, dark corridor with half the Minicons in tow. With a determined, unsettling glint in his optics.

_I must really love my job to put up with stuff like this_, thought Demolisher bleakly, as Impact snapped at him to walk faster. Then he stepped backwards as hard as he could, crushing the silver mech's foot into the ground.

Megatron rolled his optics as Impact's fluid-curdling yelp of pain echoed throughout the base.


	11. Loyalties

Loyalties

"Scrap."

"Tssk. Such language from the Autobot. I'm shocked," chided Starscream teasingly, as he moved to assist his companion in removing his foot from the craggy hole it had lodged itself in.

The two mechs had carefully reviewed the facts of the situation. Number one; they were at the base of a very high mountain. Number two; Red Alert had sent them out to look for a very high mountain. Number three; Skywarp and Thundercracker would most certainly have returned to the Autobots by now. Number four; they were down to two hours.

Number five, possibly the most important; both mechs were standing at the base of a very high mountain. It had not taken too many numbers or observations to come up with the ultimate conclusion: _Climb, boys. Climb._

And climb they did.

"You know, if this snow occurred in such vast quantities on Cybertron, we'd make proper use of it", Starscream said thoughtfully, looking around in distaste. The snow had stopped falling, but lay around in ways best suited to a cheap Christmas card. Though, taking into account the seeker's current frame of mind, had a jolly fat man appeared with a fleet of reindeer, he probably would have reduced them all to ash without a second thought.

"Eh?" grunted Jetfire, trying with less success than his companion to clamber over the slippery rocks.

Flying would have been useful right about now. Oh, how Jetfire would have loved to just fly over all this freezing cold slush, possibly pausing every now and again to scream insults at it from on high. But no, of course not. Both Jetfire and Starscream's reserves were more than low enough as it was, and attempting to fly would have been effective suicide. And so they were walking.

Well…not quite. 'Walking' was too cheerful, light-hearted a word. A grounded flyer is incapable of 'walking', much the same as a wingless bird is incapable of giving a decent rendition of the salsa. They did not walk. They plodded. They trudged. They moved as though dragging themselves through drying cement. Quite naturally, they complained every inch of the way.

But Starscream's current topic of choice was humanity, and how invariably stupid it was.

"I mean," continued the red seeker, nimbly leaping over the jagged incline, much to Jetfire's irritation and disgust, "when you consider how much energy they have on one planet alone, without even needing to farm it…why, it's practically a crime!"

"Well," contemplated Jetfire as he struggled forth, feeling the need to stand up for the squashable bipeds that they had sworn to protect, "they haven't exactly got the technology we've got. They don't even have to bother designing each new human. They just…make 'em. Kind of disorganized, actually."

"That's no excuse!" snapped the seeker. "We've evolved from the days of _mining_ energon. Sort of. Cybertron's at least three times smaller than this little rock, and it hasn't got half the number of resources. And we've still been to practically every planet in the galaxy."

"And blown up quite a few of 'em…" muttered Jetfire, not really concentrating.

Starscream dismissed this with a wave.

"That's not the point. We've made a million more achievements than _squishies_, even though all we've got for a planet is a lump of scrap hanging in space. They waste all their resources on needless creations all the time. _We've_ made innumerable scientific advances, _and _we've been engaged in at least three wars since the first-… Jetfire, what are you _doing_?"

This statement was made in response to the sight of his companion now trying to cling to a rock with one hand, whilst still manoeuvring his body up the slope. The result was that the Autobot Air Commanders leg was now tangled around his rock-clinging arm, whilst his other leg remained stubbornly on the handy foothold it had found and his other hand flailed uselessly.

"Playing 'Stretch'," grunted Jetfire as he feebly attempted to grasp a higher rock that was just a little bit further away than he could reach. How Starscream had managed to leap up this slope so quickly, he would never know.

As the red seeker scurried down to assist, Jetfire allowed his mind to drift back to the various occurrences of the last two hours.

He had been kissed before. Several times had pretty femmes and attractive mechs tried to grab the attention of the Autobot Air Commander. He'd occasionally allowed it to continue- hey, a little ego boost never hurt anyone!- but never beyond the parameters of idle flirtation. He had never been kissed by someone saving his life before.

If he shut off his optics-not a wise thing to do, considering the circumstances- he could still remember how it felt to have Starscream's fire-ice thoughts crackling in his own mind, the inky-black slivers of alien memory that had grazed the edges of his consciousness. Sweet touch of mouth against mouth, hand on wing, neck against neck as they held each other safe from the world. Warmth, the warmth of holding the unknown, being in his arms, fully aware how easily the other could have drawn free his wing-sword and gutted him. Safety. Delight.

And he wanted it again. He wanted to feel it again, jut one more time. At the moment, he was quite happy to sign his soul away and sever his own wings to feel it again.

_He scares me. He still scares me._

Was that true? Maybe. But it was not all that was true.

_Why?_

_Because he's a Decepticon, _ancient programming whispered. _Because he's the enemy and you know it._

Except that was kind of the superficial reason.

_Because he laughs out loud in battle._ _Because he adores conflict. Because being with him makes me start to question everything I've always taken for granted. Because he's different, and I don't know how to handle things being different._

Jetfire had come to rely on a few solid truths to help him truth existence. The Decepticons were evil, the Autobots were good, Optimus was an idiot for making him Second-In-Command, and there was no such thing as too big a gun. Oh, and the universe would be a safe and logical place if he just did his job well and followed a few rules.

Ever since Starscream had rocketed into his life like a gigantic, climate-changing meteor, Jetfire now found that he was not only starting to question these simple, solid truths, but also starting to question everything else as well. This was very upsetting for a person who had once thought that his range of interests would span no further than the next heavy energon cube.

_Because I love him._

As if to underline the earth-shaking awesomeness of this realization, a rock shifted beneath his feet, which in turn caused another, larger rock to shift and a higher rock he tried to grab at turned out to be a lump of icy water, nothing more, and suddenly Jetfire found himself clinging to the side of a mountain, one foot in the air, one balanced on a rock. A sliding rock.

He froze. The rock didn't. The rock kept sliding.

_Oh, scraaaaap…_

All thoughts of Starscream were filed neatly away, to be taken out and inspected later as Jetfire surveyed the situation, considering his options carefully. He wriggled against the slope, trying to gain purchase on the icy rubble, even as it started to slowly slip and start an inevitable slide downwards beneath him.

_Not good._

"Uh…Starscream?" he uttered in a voice miraculously free of a tremor, "could you maybe hurry it up?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," grumbled the seeker as he attempted to clamber back down to his partner, finding with disgust that this proved to be a great deal more difficult than climbing up had been.

"O-kay then," muttered Jetfire, as though he wasn't beginning to seriously fear for his life. More chunks of snow came loose beneath his weight as he tried kicking off it to achieve a firmer grip upon the rock. A grip that he was now rapidly starting to loose.

Something in his tone made Starscream look down sharply, and give a long, heartfelt groan.

_I should have knocked him out and _carried _him up!_, he thought with venom, as he muttered, "Trust an Autobot…"

"Starscream!" gasped Jetfire, and the seeker gave a strange, high-pitched squeak as he watched his companion's feet lose their hold and drop to dangle in mid air, as Jetfire now clung for dear life to the rocks with only his tired, overworked, underpaid and demanding-a-raise fingers.

"Sonar, take your accursed wingmates down there and help him!" ordered Starscream, his mind flipping back onto a default take-control-of-the-situation setting. Megatron would have grudgingly approved.

The little transformers beeped and obeyed, with only Runway pausing to rip off a smart salute. He ducked and followed his wingmates, chuckling as Starscream snarled and took a swipe at him. Sonar took hold of Jetfire's left arm, Runway and Jetstorm latching onto either wing as they attempted to pull the tall transformer upwards. However, even Hot Shot would have been able to spot the fundamental flaw in this plan; namely, that it is unfortunately impossible for three four foot robots to carry the weight of a fifty footy robot with wings.

"Remind me," grunted Runway to his nearest partner in beeps, "Why are we working for the Autobots, again?"

"The living quarters are bigger and the energon tastes better than the cheap slag that Megatron's got," replied Jetstorm. "Of course, there's always the thing about peace, equality and the Autobot way, of course…"

Runway gave a long string of beeps and other noises about where peace, equality and the Autobot way could go stuff themselves, and tried once again to yank the Air Commander upwards. Had Jetfire been capable of understanding the Minicon speech-patterns, at this point he would have heartily agreed.

* * *

Skywarp was not happy.

This was strange, considering that Thundercracker had often been of the opinion that what his beloved spark-twin needed most was some sort of industrial-strength anti-anti-depressant, if only to make him _stand still_ for two minutes. But now it was obvious that something was bothering the black-winged seeker, even without being as closely bonded to him as Thundercracker was. The way he hadn't actually said anything for a whole fifty seconds straight was a clear indication.

Thundercracker knew very well what was wrong. It was bothering him too, in fact. But it bothered 'Warp more because 'Warp had always been the twin closer attached to Starscream.

Skywarp didn't trust many people. You couldn't be as childishly innocent a seeker as he was and _survive_ if you didn't also possess a really good sense of when to duck. You also didn't let a great number of people past the semi-insane exterior. Starscream had been trusted. Mainly because Starscream, in his own unique way, had been every bit as whacked-out as Skywarp.

Thundercracker looked sideways at his aerial companion- sparing only dutiful thought to the supposed 'mission' they were on- and worried.

_He was wearing two symbols._

This was the thought that was currently being turned over and over in Skywarp's mainframe.

_He shouldn't wear two symbols. It's not_ right_! It's like he can't even choose if he wants to be a Decepticon or a Bot! If he's going to be a traitor, he could at least be a traitor all the way_, thought Skywarp, who did not believe in doing things by halves.

_And now he's working for Optimus Oh-So-Perfect Prime. Just like another stupid Autobot drone! Just like another_ liar.

_Wonder what made him do it? Bet it was Megatron. It was always about those two, wasn't it? Maybe Megs just hit him over the mainframe too hard… scrambled his logic circuits…_

_Bastard._ _Ungrateful slagging bastard…_

Thundercracker decided not to comment. The trick to living with Skywarp was knowing when to pin him to the wall, aim a gun at his head and demand that he spill the beans, and when not to. The smaller seeker rarely forgave and never, ever forgot. Instead, Thundercracker returned his attention to the task of locating his errant wingmate and his latest play-thing.

"Hey!" he said suddenly, as his keen optic-sensors picked upon a flash of colour, dark against the white of the mountain. "'Warp, check it out! Methinks we have discovered the Screamer, brother mine."

"Oh, goody. Now, quick, let's beat him up while no one's watching," muttered Skywarp darkly, scanning to mountainside for the flyers.

Thundercracker eyed the situation below, slowing down in mid air as his spark-twin did so beside him.

"Uh…Skywarp…that's probably going to have to wait a while…"

* * *

Starscream was ten craggy, slippery metres away from Jetfire, cutting his ebony fingers as they tried to find purchase on sharp pieces of rock, when he heard it. Jetfire was ten seconds away from losing his grip completely, falling for a long time and hitting the ground like an overripe melon, when _he_ heard it.

_Oh, no…_ thought both flyers in perfect unison.

"_Well, well, weeelllll_. _Look _what we have here."

For a fleeting moment, Jetfire considered just letting go and happily plunging to his doom. But no; Starscream was watching. He was unable to turn his head as far back as would have been useful, but his optics detected a flash of blue and white to his right

"I _do_ believe it is the Autobot Air Commander, dear brother. But what is he doing here?"

A hint of dark purple danced just out of sight on his left.

"I _do_ believe he is clinging to the side of a mountain like a drowned petro-rat. I wonder why?"

"Maybe he thinks he is one?"

"Maybe he's forgotten how to fly?"

Childish giggling from both sides at this charming little witticism. Jetfire's mood felt itself becoming even worse and he clenched his jaw shut. Now was not the time to start screeching obscenities at Starscream's ex-wingmates.

"_THUNDERCRACKER!"_ bellowed Starscream as he watched the two seekers appear from nowhere to hover like smirking vultures on either side of his companion. "_What the scrap do you think you are doing?!"_

The blue twin looked up in surprise, which turned to a delighted grin as he spied the ex-Decepticon. "Why, 'Warp! Check it out! If it isn't that traitor to the Decepticon name."

The purple twin's responding grin was equally delighted but just a dab more malicious. "So it is, 'Cracker. So it is. And what might he be doing here, I wonder, ploddin' around like a lousy _Autobot _ground-scout?"

At this, Starscream released the tiniest of growls. Thundercracker, ever the more observant of the two, noticed it, and gave a deep chuckle.

"Screamer, _what_ are you doing there?" he questioned in his deep voice, addressing the other seeker directly for the first time. As if he didn't know…

This time the growl was considerably louder, before Starscream ground out, "Thinking of how good your head would look mounted on the _wall in my quarters_."

Thundercracker only sniggered at this, whilst Skywarp made a mock-hurt look. It was surprising, really, that Skywarp had managed to preserve his precious supply of energy more carefully than Starscream, but the black and red jet did have a tendency towards brilliant, reckless, cog-headed manoeuvres, even when not in battle. He assumed that the seeker had, yet again, done something famously stupid.

_Some things never change_… thought Thundercracker fondly.

"Why, Starscream, I'm shocked!" the purple seeker drawled, in an unconscious imitation of Starscream's earlier comment that would have unnerved Jetfire, had he not already been about twenty thousand miles beyond the point of 'unnerved'. "That wasn't a nice thing to say, was it Thundercracker?"

"No, Skywarp, it was not."

"_Not_ a very nice thing to say at all," Skywarp agreed, and gave a heavily dramatic sniff. "We feel very hurt."

"Very hurt indeed. Not that _you _care," sighed Thundercracker, raising his optics piously heavenward.

Starscream could just feel a motherboard-ache coming on. They were doing this to irritate him, that much was blatantly obvious. What was difficult to understand was why his ex-wingmates continued to treat him exactly the same way they had done in the days when he had flown beside them into battle. He would have been prepared for raining curses down upon his head, he would have been prepared for Thunderacker quietly making the decision never to even look at him in a vaguely familiar way. He would have been prepared had they both decided to treat him like just another Autobot for the scrapping. That would have made sense. That would have been justice, in a strange way.

Instead, they had returned to the old treatment they had lavished upon him before he'd agreed to go to Earth with Megatron, leaving both of them to fly under the command of a new, inexperienced officer; constant needling, almost affectionate jibes designed to tease rather than to infuriate (not that they didn't often have that effect regardless).

He found himself slipping dangerously near to wistful nostalgia, and hastily brought himself back to the present.

"You two…"

"Hey! What happened to your voice?" questioned Skywarp suddenly, his expression relaying curiosity rather than concern. "It's gone all weird and raspy. Sounds like you swallowed a rake."

Starscream was not a mech known for his patience. The fact that his vocal monitor did indeed seem to have been damaged by the blizzard was not helping to ease his frame of mind. The fact that he was being reminded of this by his ex-wingmate, who, despite everything, was just as aggravatingly, _childishly_ innocent as before, was just too much.

"_Aaargh!_ Shut up!" shrieked Starscream as he snapped, his never-very-impressive self-control slipping away entirely. " For the love of all things holy, will you please, _please_ be quiet?!"

"Primus!" yelped Jetfire as more rubble slipped through his fingers and a horrible thought occurred. "Don't yell so loud, you whackos, you'll start an avalanche!"

All flyers froze, falling silent and looking upwards with haunted optics as this idea also took root in their craniums.

Skywarp looked pensive, before swooping next to Jetfire, placing his mouth and next to the shuttle's audio receptor, and whispering an over-dramatic, "_Okay, then."_

Starscream's mouth curved down once more as he stormed towards the three flyers. Or, at least, made a valiant effort. But storming is a difficult thing to do when your wings impede your balance on the snow and your clunky, shoulder-mounted weaponry keeps getting raked along sharp rocks. His foot caught on something, sending him stumbling forward and landing in a softly cursing heap. The other seekers watched on with an emotion akin to amusement.

"Leave…him…alone," the red seeker hissed, pride and pain sensors stung as he set about hauling himself to his feet. Jetfire endeavoured to send his companion a sympathetic look.

"Aw, whassamatter, Screamer? 'Fraid we'll hurt the poor little birdie?" grinned Skywarp, his voice gaining a distinctly malicious note as he added, "Or are ya just jealous?"

"Now, theoretically," stated Thundercracker, looking dispassionately down on the dangling Autobot, "we _could_ just let the poor little birdie drop."

"But then," added Skywarp, his voice becoming almost reasonable, "we aren't back-stabbing slaggers who'd betray our own wingmates, are we?"

"Unlike some…" commented Thundercracker, pretending to pay no attention to the ex-Decepticon's murderous scowl and dangerously flashing optics.

Three things happened at that moment. The first was the enraged shriek that flew from Starscream's death-white lips. The second was the unpleasant noise made as the compacted snow finally gave up the ghost and cracked away from the mountain. The third was the sensation of being grabbed by two pairs of arms that came to Jetfire as he waited to become a crunchy sort of splat.

He opened his optics, and was joyfully surprised to find himself not plunging towards the ground at breakneck speeds. This relief was hindered slightly by the realization of just why he was not the hapless victim of such a predicament. Namely, the black and blue pairs of hands that had taken hold of his arms.

"_Sheesh_, this guy weighs a ton!" grunted Skywarp as he and his brother swung the Air Commander safely back onto the plateau again. It was hardly a job that allowed for finesse, but they successfully planted the large white mech back on safe, solid ground.

Well. Not safe. This slippery rock on the side of a mountain, with a gradient that barely allowed for standing upright, could hardly be called safe. But definitely solid.

_Two near death experiences in one day_, thought Jetfire shakily, and gave Starscream a crooked grin of profound relief. The seeker shut his optics off and tried to shrug away the terror that had shot through him when the snow had fallen away.

"Starscream, do try to keep a closer eye on your pets", commented Thundercracker, drawing back out over the void.

"Yeah, or next time we might just eat 'em," sniggered Skywarp to his speechless ex-wingmate. The twins shot back out into the air, demented arch-angels.

"We'll go overhead, just follow in the same direction," added Thundercracker as an afterthought, rising above the two grounded flyers with his wingmate, who gave a delighted whoop as he transformed. They hung suspended in the atmosphere for a moment, wolves of the sky, before jet engines roared to in a dramatic show designed to grate upon Starscream's tattered nerves.

"Idiots," muttered Starscream as the seekers soared away from him and Jetfire, marking the direction in which they would locate their lost comrades.

Jetfire sighed, relishing the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet.

"Screamer, you know the weirdest people."

* * *

Wheeljack had awoken to the sound of voices. Checking his internal time-keeper, he discovered that he had been in recharge for little over twenty minutes, though it was more than enough to make his systems feels revitalized, even in this detestable climate. Climbing to his feet (noticing with a feeling akin to nausea how much will-power this simple manoeuvre took), he looked around, seeing that Red Alert and Cyclonus were nowhere to be found, and that the seekers had still not returned yet. His optics darkened to a deep blood-blue as he worriedly wondered how long it would be before Thundercracker and Skywarp returned from their mission.

(_Mission_. Wow. A small part of Wheeljack could not help but be faintly thrilled at the thought of having assigned two Decepticons, both with far more experience than he, to a _mission_.)

The sound of voices.

Turning, the black Decepticons was less-than-charmed to discover that he had, in fact, not been the first to awake. Had, in fact, been the last.

_Damn._

* * *

Scavenger sat nearby, leaning against the rocky wall, sometimes offerings 'hmm's and 'right's of agreement. The more active side of the conversation stood near the edge of the cliff, his canary-coloured arms rapped around his torso to stave off the chill as they waited for the others to return. And, of course, talking.

Hot Shot tended to talk the way that humans drew in oxygen, Scavenger contemplated. He talked as though not talking was a vague notion that had little or no real meaning, as though to stop talking would result in his imminent deactivation. He talked now solely to comfort himself, as though in need of reassurance that he was still really there. Most of the mechs Scavenger had met went quiet and drew into themselves whenever they were stranded on alien worlds, with little hope of making it back to base alive. Most mechs seemed to want to contemplate their existence, maybe even consider getting in touch with Primus before Death got in touch with _them_.

Not Hot Shot.

What the red and yellow sports cars was currently talking about was…everything, really. He meandered through his favourite topics of conversation (the kids, human culture, his latest top speed, how great the Autobots were, how lousy the Decepticons were), paying little or no attention to the words emitted by his vocal processor. Scavenger was, despite himself, impressed. It took a special kind of mentality, he reflected, to just keep babbling on for sheer boredom's sake, long after the mainframe had stopped thinking.

"Grr," Hot Shot said. (Once again, Scavenger was impressed. He had yet to meet anyone else who could _speak_ a growl.) "This stinks."

Scavenger made a non-committal noise, fully aware that Hot Shot would be paying only fleeting attention to his response.

"I mean," the young Autobot continued, "who'd ya think is behind this anyway? I'll tell ya who! It's Sideways, that slagging traitor, that's who's behind this!"

Another symptom, mused the bulldozer, was an inability to speak any sentence without nailing an exclamation mark onto the end of it. Another non-committal noise, another half-nod. A few steps away, Mayfly sat passively in the snow, examining her guns with an air of professional disinterest. Briefly, Scavenger wondered what Red Alert's plans were concerning to Communications Officer when they reached the top. He waved the thought away; trying to understand Red's plans was hazardous to one's health.

Unnoticed by Hot Shot, Wheeljack's audio receptors honed in on his words. It wasn't that he was interested to hear what the Autobot was saying, of course not, but he might be able to gather invaluable information if he paid close enough attention.

Yeah.

"But I'll tell ya another thing," Hot Shot went on, "I'll bet that this was somehow those stupid 'Cons' fault. Yeah, I'll bet Megatron said something or did something to give Sideways the idea! It'd be just like that jerk to make some stupid mess-up like that."

"Shut up."

The words were carved from ice. Hot Shot stopped talking.

He turned and looked into the vein-blue optics of Wheeljack, who stood maybe fifty feet away, watching him with a hard, predatory expression.

"What did you say?"

The words that came from Hot Shot's mouth had been designed to be said in a light, confused tone, as if he didn't know exactly what the darker mech was talking about. But when he heard them, they were flat and heartless and grim as the anger that was now rising from deep within his spark to bubble just an inch behind his face.

Scavenger heard the suddenly formidable tone in Hot Shot's voice and observed the wolf-like, simmering expression on Wheeljack's faceplate, and discreetly looked around to see if there were any large rocks available to throw himself behind.

"Um… Hot Shot?" beeped Jolt nervously, as his partner turned to face the Deception. Windsheer, who was the fractionally smarter of the two Minicons, just started to edge towards the nearest cover.

Blue, the colour of ice locked unwillingly onto blue, the colour of the sky.

_So damn **pure**…_

"I said shut up," replied Wheeljack in an even voice. "Stop talking about my leader like that, Auto-trash."

_Auto-trash. __His _leader. _Megatron, his _leader_. W__heeljack_…

Pain, suffused by the fumes of anger contorted the Autobot's young face. Anger, tinged with pain blazed as hellfire in the Decepticon's optics. The tension crackled in the same way that static will in a cat's fur during a lightning storm.

_Why had he never gotten rid of the scar?_

_It would have been a simple process. There were almost parts of a transformer's outer shell that could not be easily patched up or replaced entirely. Wings tended to be something more of a problem, as the replacement of wings entailed the recalculation and recalibration of a thousand minor systems and bits of sensory circuitry, all required to allow for proper flight. But an arm or leg or even a chest-plate was a simple matter, usually involving little more than a few hours in the repair bay. Wounds that pierced the outer shell were generally more serious, often requiring the mending of a network of fuel lines and delicate circuitry. A direct, armour-penetrating hit to the torso was often more dangerous than the loss of both arms. Arms could be replaced, and the only major danger was deactivation from a loss of fuel._

_And scars were hardly ever a problem. Especially ones that didn't even penetrate the outer shell, as was the case of Wheeljack's. Fifteen minutes with some filling fluid and a mild, itchy sensation the next day would have taken care of the damned thing. True, the fact that it ran a direct course through his insignia would have meant that the mild, itchy sensation would have been more of an incessant, blistering ache, but that too would have gone away in time. _

_But he hadn't done it. Hadn't even considered it. He'd taken the new faction-symbol with a kind of bitter, toughened pride, but he had never painted over the other one, or patched up the scar, which was minor by transformer standards. He'd left the scar there, to taunt him every time he caught sight of his reflection, just as the dreams haunted him every time he dared fall prey to recharge._

And now here his old-friend stood, unscarred, whole, complete at the price of leaving him to the flames. Here the _Autobot _stood, insulting the name of the creature who had walked through fire to save him. The creature who had seen potential in him where others had seen only a waste of spare parts. The creature who had rescued him, in more ways than one…

He didn't quite remember every detail of the time when Megatron deposited him safely on the ground, only seventy metres from the inferno that still raged on in the background. He remembered looking up and seeing him, piercing optics the colour of flames, singed by the fire and dented by the previous battle, an ancient barbarian god of chaos looking down on him in frowning curiosity.

That was the image that had stuck in Wheeljack's mainframe, long after any of Megatron's promises of revenge and glory had worn away. Standing tall, damaged but utterly unbowed before him, to Wheeljack, he looked like nothing so much as a guardian angel sent straight from the Inferno.

Then realization had come of who the mech before him actually was, and the shock had been enough to send Wheeljack into the merciful dark of stasis. His last memory of the dread place was of two hands dragging him from the flames as something exploded behind them and Megatron roared down a com-link for a retrieval ship…

And when he had woken up, it had been in the repair bay of the Storm's Eye, one of Megatron's most revered battle ships. And Megatron himself had appeared in an hour and explained the situation, as it were.

The magnitude of this had completely escaped Wheeljack's notice at the time.

Truth told, Wheeljack had little memory of what the Decepticon leader had actually said. He had spent most of the time looking at him blankly, replaying the vision of the flames over and over in his mind. He did remember asking where Hot Shot was, and he vividly remembered being told that all the Autobots in the area had left.

But possibly what he remembered the most was what had happened after Megatron had left, saying something about advising him to "accept his offer." He was given a day to think about it. His thoughts in a jumbled, devastated mess- _where was Hot Shot? He couldn't have left, he just couldn't have_-, he had left the med-bay, probably against Megatron's orders. He didn't know. Nothing that was said had left any sort of indention on him at all. He had wandered for hours like a dead thing, before he had chanced upon a computer. Not a difficult or unusual thing to find on a spaceship owned by giant robots, but as he had stared blankly at it, a thought had occurred to him, that jolted his dazed mainframe violently back to life.

He knew the codes to the Autobot recruitment files. Why not…?

He had hacked into the Autobot new recruit database, a relatively simple task for a mech who had once received a sky-high grade in science and technology back at the Academy. After an hour of searching, Wheeljack had located Hot Shot's name on the roster, and breathed a sigh of relief at the discovery that his comrade was not dead.

And the thought had come to him on silent, demonic wings; if Hot Shot was alive, why hadn't her come back for him? If Hot Shot was alive, what had he said to the Autobot officer in charge of the mission?

With a buzzing noise coming from somewhere in his brain, he had looked up his own records, vaguely wondering if maybe he had already been reported dead. If so, what would be the cause of his death, he wondered? Death by fire? Death by betrayal? Death by the order of an Autobot officer to go ahead with what had been a stupid plan to begin with, even after the Decepticons had arrived?

But he hadn't been reported dead.

He hadn't been reported alive.

He hadn't in fact, been reported at all.

His records were missing.

For hours he had checked, over and over. Surely there must have been some mistake? But no- someone had deliberately, purposefully eliminated him from the record books, like a small, unfortunate stain wiped from a shiny sheet of metal.

After all, who wanted to bother with the paperwork involved in reporting yet another dead soldier? After all, it had been an embarrassing failure of a mission, far better to pretend it never happened. Wheeljack? Who was he?

He had wanted to scream. He had wanted to do a lot of things, most of them to either Hot Shot or the Autobot commanding officer, or heck, even Optimus Prime himself.

He hadn't. For a long time, he had just stood there. Eventually, Megatron had chanced upon him, confused and deeply annoyed to see his prisoner wandering freely around the base. When asked what the krell he was doing, Wheeljack had looked blankly up at the Decepticon leader- the dark god, hellish angel, his saviour- and then knelt before him as he had seen some of the Decepticons doing earlier.

Then he had stood and explained every last inch of the story to the larger mech- every detail relayed in a flat, dead voice without any intonation whatsoever-, and then he had pledged his allegiance to Megatron from that moment until the end of time. And Megatron had nodded once.

And Megatron himself had given him his new insignia, pointedly placing it opposite to the severed Autobot one, and graced him with a tiny smile.

And from that moment he had clung to the Decepticon cause like a lifebelt.

And now this traitor, this _Autobot,_ this unspeakable piece of _scrap_ was _daring_ to speak ill of his leader, _in front of him_?

Wheeljack felt his gun hand start to twitch.

"Au…auto-trash?" gasped Hot Shot, clearly hurt.

"Yes, that's what I called you. Auto-trash," replied Wheeljack in a calm, clear voice that nonetheless pulsated with anger. "Or have you spent so much time being brainwashed by Optimus Prime that you can no longer understand an insult?"

Hot Shot cry out in pain as he watched his friend, his comrade, the mech he had once trained with turn into someone completely different before his optics.

_No. Dammit, no! I've got to get through to him_!, he thought in furious determination. _He's an Autobot! He's got to be!_

"Brainwashed? That's rich, coming from you!" he snarled back. "And so what if I call your nutjob leader a _jerk _who spends most of his time screwing up and the rest of his time shouting at one of you Decepti-dorks for screwing up even worse! He's a coward and a liar, just like the rest of you lousy, two-faced, _evil, back-stabbing 'Cons_! _Aahk!_"

"_I SAID SHUT UP!" _screamed Wheeljack, and leapt.

His weight sent Hot Shot flying backwards, to land on the snow with a yelp of pain and surprise, that quickly turned to a snarl as he found himself pinned beneath the Decepticon, helpless beneath a rain of blows. Taking his chance, the Autobot cleverly deflected one of the fists and landed a punch upon Wheeljack's scent-detector. The black mech was thrown off, only to leap once again for the Autobot's throat with a feral howl as Hot Shot did the same. They disappeared in a tangle of limbs and joints and sparks and ragged screaming.

Scavenger watched in silence for a few minutes, weighing up his options. Mayfly turned her head and watched the fight emotionlessly, somehow managing to convey the impression of an emperor watching someone being thrown to the lions.

He was tempted to just stand by and let them get on with it, blowing off a healthy amount of steam. But the fact remained that they still needed to be in one piece to get to the top and signal the Autobot base, and he was in no mood to have to carry both of the idiots the rest of the way. Besides, the reprimand that Red Alert would give him for his lack of reaction (in which the words 'negligence', 'irresponsibility' and you should know better' would be used any times), would be nothing compared to the stern-yet-faintly-disappointed look that Optimus would give him if (_when_) he found out. Scavenger did not look up to his leader in any way at all, but he did respect him as a comrade, and those stern-yet-faintly-disappointed looks that Optimus could come up with at a moment's notice were enough to make even the hardened warrior wince slightly.

And so, with some regret, he stepped forward to pull Hot Shot off his brother, and realized with a jolting, horrible feeling that he had waited just a second too late, thought not quite far enough ahead.

As Cyclonus and Red Alert ran into view, Wheeljack's momentum caught Hot Shot by surprise, and sent them both tumbling over the edge.


	12. Footholds

Footholds

They fell.

Down, a moment of incredible weightlessness that went almost unnoticed by the two combatants, the air streaming between them, arms and hands tied in the task of murder, down they fell, a warring ball of destruction and rage. The instant flew away and they hit the slope, both shells protesting loudly as fresh dents were sustained, pain sensors barely registering anything beyond the scarlet veil of killing.

They hit, rolled, continuing downwards as though they were children tumbling through Autumn leaves, all innocence and laughter replaced by bitterness and disappointed fury. Hands scrabbled to gain hold on rivets and joints, fingers left deep grooves running over cold outer plating. Optics blazed with similar madness as curses and curses and curses flew from their lips, neither entirely aware of what they were saying.

Down, down they tumbled, leaving a path in the snow as they hurtled unknowing towards the end of the slope, a cruel ledge that opened out into the void. However, the mountain was merciful. Both were caught by the marginal upward tilt of the ledge, the roll slowing their momentum enough to keep them from being propelled over the edge. They hit rock and fell back, dazed, falling separate. Within seconds, Hot Shot had recovered sufficiently to leap for Wheeljack's neck with a snarl. Growling from deep within his vocal monitor, the dark mech fought back, hands becoming talons as he ripped at the lighter Autobot's face, his neck, his torso.

Scuffling in the pale, milky light of the sun, both transformers appeared more to be big cats, fighting over a kill, claws, teeth, circuitry, invisible electric fields crackling like an all-encompassing halo around them both.

_Kill hate rip why pain stoppit rage punch shout pain anger how no hate kill pain anger…_

Distantly, Wheeljack was aware of voices, of foggy figures in the background sliding down the slope towards them, before these thoughts too were consumed in the red haze. All thoughts of Megatron, of the Deceptions, even of self-preservation were wonderfully washed away in the pure, animal fire erupting within him.

But it was still not enough. The flames were still there, only now they were hotter, brighter, higher, closer, all around him, phantom voices from long-stored memories spinning in his mainframe, flames, fire, and still, someone was crying.

Hot Shot was prey to no such madness, but his emotions had once again succeeded in bringing him down. And down he went, willingly, into the murderous rage that felt alien, and somehow, comforting. Later, he would look back upon it, and shudder. Now, he surrendered himself completely. Inside, a voice was yelling at him in fury, demanding to know why the slot he was being such an _idiot_…

Their insults grew silent and gave way to inhuman snarls. Neither worried or cared about the energy they were senselessly wasting, neither paid any attention to the early-warning signs that flickered briefly across their vision. The look on Hot Shot's young, innocent face, as Red Alert drew near enough to see it, was enough to send chilled poison into the medic's spark.

It was a miracle, he would think later, that neither of their weapons had been working. If they had, it was almost certain that one or both of the hot-headed mechs would not have come down from the mountain in one piece, or indeed, at all. However, considering what they were left to work with, the amount of damage the Decepticon and the Autobot had managed to do to each other in the space of fifty seconds was impressive.

Red Alert had a great deal on his mind, one of which was his still-under-construction Big Plan, followed closely by a deep-seated worry as to Jetfire and Starscream's whereabouts. He knew he should have been frozen. He knew he should have stepped back, looked at the situation rationally, and only then made any definite decisions. But the thought welled up, quiet and forceful; _I can't deal with this right now._

He stepped forward, mouth set in a grim line of determination and caught Hot Shot's shoulders. To his eternal gratitude, this did not result in the loss of his arms, as Scavenger swore and came up beside him trying to grabs the smaller mech's flailing fists.

Wheeljack felt himself being yanked from his quarry, and momentarily, was overcome by blood-red fury, which swiftly dissolved into confusion. He fought back, furiously trying to get back at his prey, his enemy, his…his…

_Hot Shot?_

The veiled lifted ever-so-slightly, allowing the black Decepticon to focus upon the sight of his thrashing, dented nemesis, though not far back enough to cool the wild-fire rage that pumped through his fuel lines. For a startled moment, Wheeljack found himself wondering what on Cybertron they were doing here, in the cold, fighting each other like this. Shouldn't they be in Basic Training classes, or Ship Maintenance right now? The masters of the Academy would be angry, wouldn't they…?

The memory faded, leaving only a bitter taste behind, and Wheeljack released an animal snarl, about to hurl himself upon the enemy once before. But it was too much and the flames were everywhere even though it was cold and he was tired and every noise he heard was an amplified mess of sound and the world was spinning around him in a horrifying carousel and…

Red Alert felt Hot Shot's movements becoming gradually less erratic as the yellow mech slowly cooled down. Wheelack, however, continued to writhe and hurl insults as Cyclonus restrained him. As Red Alert watched, the Decepticon's movements changed from outraged to helpless, as though he were trying to escape invisible creatures eating him on every side. His optics opened suddenly and in them Red Alert saw something very much like despair.

Finally, the orange helicopter cursed and spun Wheeljack around to face him. This was an impressively gutsy move, considering that the patient, glacier-calm Decepticon now resembled nothing so much as a rabid wolf caught in a trap. Catching both flailing fists, Cyclonus gave the younger mech a hard shove, looked him in the optic and roared, "_JACK_, GET a _GRIP_!"

High above, the mountain trembled.

The words achieved what nothing else would have been able to. Wheeljack blinked once, twice, going eerily still. Slowly, recognition crawled across his faceplate, the taught, fevered madness drained from his body. He stared at Cyclonus in blatant confusion, as though not quite where he was.

"Hey, Wheeljack…you okay?" queried Cyclonus awkwardly, peering owlishly at his lab-partner.

Instead of answering, the dark Decepticon looked around him, before his haunted gaze landed on Hot Shot.

It was the first time in many, many years that Hot Shot had seen something in his old friend's optics other than anger or smug triumph. Far worse than either was the look of wounded trust. Come to think of it, whispered a treacherous little thought, it was exactly the way he had looked when Sideways had delivered the Star Sabre into the Decepticons' hands.

"Wheeljack… c'mon, snap out of it…" Cyclonus continued to plead.

At last, the words drew Wheeljack from his reverie. Shaking his head from side to side, he looked up at the helicopter once more with clearer optics. Cyclonus watched as the pain and the misery were pushed back, shoved away.

"Yes. I'm fine," replied Wheeljack, in a flat voice, giving a slow nod.

Cyclonus sighed an internal sigh of profound relief. Scavenger carefully scrutinized the black car's face, before saying, "Alright, you two. That's enough. The next stupid fight like that and I'm kickin' the both of you all the way to the top. Got it, Hot Shot?"

Hot Shot's mouth opened and closed a few times before he too, gave a slow nod. Scavenger grunted and released him, swaying but still managing to remain upright. His face had sustained a large, unattractive dent and his shell was covered in scratch marks. Wheeljack looked little better himself, Cyclonus noted as he gradually let go of his temporary-commander, watching to see if did something interesting when released, like explode.

Uneasy silence crept in, both mechs looking anywhere but at one another. Red Alert stood helplessly by, fully aware that here lay wounds that he would be unable to patch up, no matter how many hours he laboured. He found himself exchanging another equal-suffering look with Cyclonus, and in a far way, thought, _How_ _strange this is._

"_Yooo-hoooo_!"

The tension went 'pop' as even the stoical Scavenger gave a little jump. All optics turned to the source of the call, and looked up to see a white form appear above, from upon the ledge where they had rested.

"What are you guys doing down there?" asked Jetfire, his voice accompanied by a cheerful snicker that they had already learnt to identify. Skywarp appeared hovering beside Jetfire, closely followed by Thundercracker. Both sported huge grins, although Jetfire looked a tad less benevolent. Starscream shortly followed, his expression distinctly sour.

Red Alert shut off his optic band and felt a small amount of tension melt from his body. Well, that was one less thing to worry about.

* * *

Demolisher's nervousness erupted into full-fledged fear only when they entered the Generator Room.

It was not as large as the Autobots' underground tavern, but it was filled with the same of silent menace, an atmosphere that seemed to say, _Every_ _piece of equipment in this room can roast you crispy, and you know it. No matter how powerful you are, what is in this room supplies power to you, to your ship, keeps you alive. If what is in this room goes away, you are dead in more ways than a million minds together would be able to comprehend._

What was in the room was this; a big box.

As Demolisher's mismatched optics readjusted their frequencies to the lightless space, he noticed other factors. Cables, coming out of the box, linked down onto the floor and shooting straight up into the ceiling. The box itself looked to be made of smooth, polished carbon, utterly black and humming with power that crackled and snapped at Demolisher's circuits, setting his already-tense frame of mind even more on the edge.

"Ah," said Megatron in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, "here it is, then."

Leader-One listened very carefully to the tone in his master's voice. He eyed the humming piece of machinery and took note of the wires that protruded from it. He watched Black-Out and Skyblast exchange glances upon the ground. And, slowly, it dawned on Leader-One that he had a faint inkling of what Megatron's latest grand scheme consisted of.

Leader-One trusted his master. True, he often held the quiet opinion that his master had a few loose logic-circuits, and frequently questioned his leader's judgement (although _never_ to his face), but on the whole, the Minicon considered Megatron no less sane than any of the other large mechs he had met in his life. Megatron, unlike a great number of the soldiers and merchants he had encountered, was not prepared to stand idle whilst the tempestuous winds of chance blew him on from one hardship to the next. Instead, he set forward stoically and determinedly, and found all new hardships for himself. Leader-One admired him for this. There was something…endearing about it, really.

But every once in a while, the grey Minicon started to have his doubts. Infrequent times when his leader's orders just seemed a bit too ridiculous, a bit too ruthless without sufficient justification, or just an inch too insane. Like now, for example.

Leader-One liked to consider himself as his leader's conscience, as it were. Granted, this meant that he was rarely listened too and often found that it took a sledgehammer to get Megatron's attention, but it was a reasonable position, nonetheless. And, considering that he had been filling it for some time, the small mech was in tune with his master's facial expressions. Mainly, knowing the difference between the ones that suggested an 'irrational but still plausible' plan of action, and the ones that suggested something had gone dangerously haywire in Megatron's mainframe.

Leader-One did not have any friends. This was hardly surprising, considering that the other mechs on the moon-base regarded the Minicon with either outright dislike or cautious contempt, in the case of the larger officers. And Megatron…it was impossible to be friends with Megatron. Utterly, totally impossible. Leader-One had known the Decepticon commander for quite some time, and he had quietly formulated the opinion that there was something about Megatron that projected a sort of anti-friend field.

It wasn't quite the same as evil, or anti-social behaviour, or even due to the undeniable fact that the purple mech was, when all was said and done, a born-again bastard. No, it had more to do with the observation that often there seemed to be vast, looming black hole within him where friendship, camaraderie and mirth should be. Megatron was so very unliveable and disagreeable that he transcended such feeble definitions, came out the other end of them and ended up, in a twisty, warped way, as Leader-One's best friend.

The better word, reflected the grey mech, would be 'anti-friend'. Not an enemy, certainly never a friend, but so far down the line from friendly companionship that he received an almost indifferent respect and trust from the Decepticon leader.

Leader-One was fully aware of all this, and he jealously treasured that trust. As far as he was aware, Megatron bestowed it upon no-one else, although there had been a few brief moments after Thrust's arrival that had worried him. And very often, he could guess what the days battle plan would be long before it was announced. At the least, the grey Minicon could get a vague idea that almost always proved to be right.

But he couldn't do that now.

Megatron had allowed him not the barest hint of what was going to be done upon reaching the generator room. The most he could deduce was that it involved the other Minicons. This alone was enough to make Leader-One nervous, as most of Megatron's plans involving the Minicons tended towards the crummy.

"And," spoke up Impact from behind Demolisher, folding his thick silver arms, "what do we do with it?"

Megatron ignored the new recruit and said, "Demolisher. Help me de-rig the cables."

There was a note of grim decisiveness in his voice.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

"Sir, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Hoist, you have asked me that question seventeen times in the last eight minutes. Is it really going to make you feel better if I say 'Yes' for the seventeenth time?"

"Sorry, sir. Right, I think that's it."

'It' was the connecting of a series of cables into the Autobot leader's body.

_Y'know, I've seen some scary things in my time_, thought Hoist, and this was certainly true- he had lived on the same base as Scavenger and Sideswipe for a year now and had gazed down the wrong end of the Requiem Blaster. _Wonder why it is that this creeps me out more than any slaggin' Decepticon attack?_

'This' was the sight of Optimus Prime standing close to the generator, bathed in the weird blue light thrown off the walls, with eighteen heavy-duty connection cables running into to energy port on his back. Four smaller cables ran into his torso, uncomfortably close to his spark-box.

The generator persisted in giving off a weak, eerie glow, not half of what it should have achieved. Had Sideways's satellite not had its cruel way with its delicate network of circuitry and wiring, it would have illuminated the tavern in the manner of a miniature white dwarf.

Now, the idea was sound, in principal. _In principal_. Hoist had learnt long ago not to trust that phrase. In principal, Sideswipe was a member of the Elite Autobot Team, graceful in battle and skilled in the art of war. In principal, this was the truth. In truth, the truth was that Sideswipe was a socially-inept baby-bot with a fixation for hugs and a mind like a pin when it came to breaking codes. And, in truth, the idea was…was…

It was a matter of rerouting the energy through the cables and into the Autobot's body. This was hideously complicated enough as it was, and explained to Skyscan why Optimus had asked Hoist the resident Short Engineer Dude to come with him to this shut-off section of the Pit. Once this was done, in theory, and with the modifications Hoist had added to the systems, Optimus would either be back at full power or fried extra crispy. And then it got _complicated._

Somehow, having regained his stolen energy, Optimus would then proceed to administer a transfer to the rest of the Autobots on the base, utilizing Hoist's engineering skills and some of Red alert's lower-grade tools. Restored, they would also reroute some of the main generator's lines into the warp room, allowing them to retrieve Red Alert and the others, and when that was done, they would send Starscream, Jetfire and the Air Defence team off to go blow up whatever ungodly device Sideways had come up with. And that would be that.

This idea was a good one, in principal. And, had it not been for roughly twenty flaws and innumerable major risks, Hoist would have said that it was a good idea all round.

'_Hoist- died tragically (for the _**second slagging time**_) in attempting to pull off a plan that worked, in principal. Forensic researchers say he had to be swept up with a human toothbrush.' _

Not the obituary he had been hoping for, thought Hoist gloomily. The kids had been ordered to remain at the far end of the cave, as removed from the generator as possible. Skyscan, however, had refused to surrender his position on Hoist's shoulder.

"Hoist," said Optimus, and already the Autobot could hear the strain in his leader's voice.

_He'll never take all the power by himself. Look at him, he's already slumping over just from having those lines in him. _

"Activate the first grid, Hoist," ordered Optimus in a tired voice.

"No."

There was a firm note in white mech's voice. Prime looked down at him, wondering if he had heard that correctly, and took in the stubborn, mind-made-up look on Hoist's faceplate. The Autobot leader was just about to ask Hoist to confirm when the short mech spoke up again.

"No offence, sir, but you're a mess. You were already pretty low on energy when the power went down. And now you're just gonna let all that energy flood your systems out, right when we don't have Red Alert to fix you up? Sorry, Optimus, but it isn't happening while I'm here."

Optimus opened his mouth to respond when he watched Hoist walk towards him, wordlessly disconnect some of the cables from his back and open the connection ports on his torso. It was a tricky, fiddly operation, but Hoist was as good with his hands as any medic. Within three minutes, he looked much he same as Optimus, tied into the generator, immense reserves of untapped energy just waiting to flare down the connections and turn him into Kentucky Fried 'Bot.

When finished, he looked up into the face of his commander. Who was just staring at him, not speaking, his emotions difficult to read from behind the ever-present mask (Could that thing even be removed, Hoist wondered?). At last, the large mech simply said quietly, "You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I know," grumbled Hoist, checking the connections a final time.

"It will be dangerous."

"Yeah, I know."

"You've already died once this war."

"Yeah, I know. Can we get this over with?"

It seemed that, although Optimus had no visible mouth with which to smile, his optics did the job just as well.

"I'll go activate those grids."

_Damn, I'm a Good Solider._

* * *

Megatron's plan was simpler than Optimus'. It was also quite a bit nastier. Even Demolisher stared to cotton on when the Decepticon leader ordered the Minicons to power link with him.

Whilst Optimus planned to use energy from the already-weakened generator to rejuvenate himself and his men, Megatron intended to restore the generator of the moon-base to full power first. Once the generator was repaired, the Decepticons would then replenish their energy in the healing chambers, and the others would be warped back to base. A neat little plan, and, under other circumstances, Megatron would have been proud of it. However, there remained the matter of restoring power to the generator.

It wasn't the best idea, but it would do. Hopefully no harm would come to him or the Minicons in the process, although, Megatron would have had to admit, the possibility was likely.

The tank took a small measure of smug pride in that he succeeded in not flinching once as Demolisher link the cords up to him.

"Uh…sir?"

Demolisher's voice was tentative, but it contained a definite note of doubt. Resisting the urge to backhand his soldier, Megatron grunted in reply, fiddling with the final cable attached to a port in his shoulder.

"It's just that…I was…" began the soldier uneasily, torn between his inherent faith in his leader and whatever it was he wanted to ask.

"Spit it out, fool, we don't have all day," snapped Megatron testily, not enjoying the sensation of being almost entirely plugged into a starship generator that could, if anything went wrong, reduce him to cinders.

"…Do we have to use the Minicons, sir?"

Megatron's mental gramophone caught and stuck on this, and he turned with a questioning gaze to his soldier, who looked fractionally more sheepish than normal. Behind him, Impact stared on with open contempt, leading the Megatron to wonder if summoning the silver Decepticon had really been one of his smarter ideas.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked lightly, suspecting that he knew very well what Demolisher was talking about. Far, far too well.

Demolisher's face twisted into an agony of indecision. "I…I just…", he started before giving up and screwing his courage together. "I was just kind of wondering about this idea you had, sir…"

He glance up at Megatron's optics and seemed to shrink, lowering his head and stubbornly getting the words out in a mumble that was as close to actual defiance as Demolisher ever became.

"Is Blackout gonna be okay, sir?" the green tank asked in a small voice, fully aware of Impact's contemptuous gaze burning a hole in his back. Even more aware of Megatron's blazing crimson one burning a hole in his head.

There was a moment of dangerous silence.

(And, down on the floor, Black-Out stared emotionlessly ahead, as was usual. He was staring emotionlessly ahead at Demolisher's foot. And, as he listened to the conversation going on above, the silent Minicon thought to himself. What was unusual was that this time, he was thinking to himself on the subject of his 'master'.

Demolisher was loyal. That much was obvious even to the moon rock, he mused. But what people tended to forget was that Demolisher wasn't _only_ loyal.

Black Out decided that he had no right to be so surprised, really. He had always known that, given the laws of probability and the vastness of the universe, somewhere or other, there would a nice Decepticon.

It was quite a shock to meet him in person, though.

Black-Out's feelings for his 'partner' had started out as disgust, mellowed into contempt which had sunk into angry confusion, then to complete bewilderment and finally, a touch of affection that had been borne from pity more anything else. He just didn't _understand_. Demolisher was, more or less, the perfect soldier, yet he bungled through operations, had a vocabulary that was limited at best and abysmal at worst, and, when all was said and done, he was a lousy shot.

Megatron hadn't brought Demolisher to Earth for his loyalty, Black-Out concluded, the dark little wheels in his mind enjoying the opportunity to turn for once. Many soldiers were loyal. What Demolisher had was something different. Trust, that was it. Demolisher trusted, and therefore, was always impeccably trustworthy. Whilst others followed Megatron blindly, out of a strange, desperate need to follow someone, Demolisher followed because he truly believed, more than anything, in Megatron.

To hear Demolisher not only voicing doubts but actually questioning Megatron's wisdom was a scene that lit a small, warm fire in Black-Out's spark.)

The moment was broken, to Demolisher's surprise, by Megatron's quiet yet unmistakable sigh. The green tank was both relieved and alarmed. He had been expecting a blow or a gun waved threateningly against his head, so it could have been worse than a sigh. But Demolisher remained wary. Megatron's sighs had a tendency to herald disaster.

"Demolisher, I will admit that there are…certain risks involved," stated the Decepticon leader, sounding as though he was running all his words through a mental filter. "But this is our survival, soldier."

'_Soldier',_ thought Demolisher, privately. _Oh, boy._

"Would you have us all perish, merely to safeguard the Minicons from a risk, no greater than the risk we take every day in battle? Would you have us sacrifice our freedom to that turncoat, all for being afraid to take power where it's available?"

There words were spat out angrily, but it wasn't anger directed at Demolisher. The words were fine and the sentiment was purely Decepticon, but they still had the rehearsed, unbelievable sound of someone reading off lines he doesn't find quite convincing enough.

"Yes, sir. I know, sir," said Demolisher quietly, knowing the lines for what they were. "But…Black-Out's my…partner, sir."

_(Partner_, though the Minicon on the ground. _Yes, that was the word, probably. It probably didn't have anything to do with the fact that Demolisher tended to have a leetle problem with the word 'friend'. Of course not.)_

The green mech fell silent, and continued to stare at Megatron in his slightly dumb, transparent way, mismatched optics showing complete honesty. Megatron let his gaze glide from the generator to the Minicons to the ceiling to Demolisher's honest, ready-to-serve dace. The almost uncaring manner not revealing a hint of the queasy, wavering, uncertain feeling brewing away in his thoughts. Reflecting upon how much he hated feeling wavering and uncertain.

He gave another sigh, this one laced with a growl as his intellect skimmed over all other alternatives and found them all wanting.

"Demolisher," began the older mech, speaking in a low, cold voice just soft as Demolisher's last words had been. "I want you to understand this. We have no choice. Do you understand? We have no choice! We will be empty shells in a matter of hours, decaying over the millennia a million light-years from Cybertron. Lost forever. Yes, there are dangers, I will admit. My two head engineers are down on that wretched blue mudball, and a great deal of this will be guesswork. I would not be attempting this if I saw another way. I am as much at risk of circuit disruption or internal meltdown as the Minicons. Do you understand? We are up against insurmountable odds, none of the cards stacked in our favour and it appears that the universe has taken a strong disliking to us."

Demolisher peered owlishly at his commander, not speaking for a moment before he shook his head from side to side. When he raised it again, it bore an oven-baked, crumbly smile.

"Not much different from usual then, Mighty Megatron?" the soldier said innocently. To his surprise, Megatron gave a dark chuckle.

"Activate the grids, Demolisher."


	13. Output

Output

Jetfire had just started to head downwards, with Starscream following after, when his audios picked up on the low rumble.

_Not_ of jet engine's this time, a deep instinct told him. That, and the increasing vibrations that were being picked up by the sensors on his feet.

Down below stood their comrades. Unutterable relief had swept through Jetfire's form as he had laid optics upon them, although he had prudently counted them all, just in case one of them had murdered another and hastily stashed the corpse. But no, all seemed in order. And, for the first time that day, things actually seemed to be going right, thought Jetfire cheerfully as he came over the curve. That was when he had heard the rumble.

The entire scene took on a strange, glossy look, almost a monochrome as shock and dead-weight fear rose yet again in his spark, sending incomprehensible, senseless warning messages scrolling across the inside of his optics. Suddenly, irrationally, he wished he was wearing his mask. Things were…easier when he could hide behind the ugly gold plate that was permanently welded into a silly grin.

Like a mech possessed, he turned his vision upward. He saw the two seekers, huddled together as they scurried up the incline, contesting to see who reached the top first. Both had agreed to remain ground-bound for the while, to conserve their precious, fading reserves. Peering over his shoulder with ferret-like curiosity was Starcream, the dim white glow of the snow behind him giving him a ice-cold halo. Jetfire would have appreciated the effect more had he not continued to look up. And further up. And further.

And to the cloud-like thing that was rushing down the mountain to meet them.

Starscream noticed the look on Jetfire's face before he heard the avalanche. His final thoughts as he tackled his new wingmate to the ground and braced himself for the impact were, _And if Sideways had anything to do with _this _one, there's going to be one less purple freak in the universe when I get my hands on him._

* * *

As the first wave of power left him, Megatron grimaced.

Powerlinking with all the Minicons at once brought on the same wonderful feeling of invulnerability and strength as it always had. And, as always, the feeling quickly faded to leave him feeling as though several alien insects had crawled onto his form and were feeding something nasty into his fuel lines. The initial instinct was to shout and rip them off, and then wash himself down with a hose to cleanse away the sensation of other energy fields-other _minds_-encroaching on his own.

He fought the revulsion, forcing himself to concentrate on the Minicons as entirely separate entities who just happened to be unusually close to him. This helped. Slightly.

But still; the power was there. Granted, it wasn't the sort of power he would have preferred, namely power that was his and his alone, but at the moment, it would do. He powered up his fusion cannon, then shuddered in disgust as the power drained away, taken into the generator to be converted into energy to recharge the base. Early warning messages ran briefly over his vision, reporting nothing too serious as of yet.

Demolisher watched as a faint corona formed around the tyrant, the power-cords of the generator reacting to his own energy field. He watched as Megatron stiffened and swayed at the first transfusion, and wordlessly moved a bit closer.

The black cube in the centre of the darkly lit room began to take on a distinctly red gleam.

* * *

Laserbeak watched the proceedings below with a detached interest.

Laserbeak liked to watch things. Watching things was, after all, what he had been designed for. And, in the Antarctic, he had been getting very, very bored. Some would speculate on the impossibility of a mechanical alien vulture getting bored. Some would be wrong. Laserbeak was rarely bored, provided that he had something to watch, something to record. The Autobot base was a near endless source of entertainment in this regard. Barely an hour went by without some nicely chaotic distraction intruding into the normal run of things. In fact, such distractions had become so frequent that now prank wars, enemy infiltrations and suicidally dangerous stunts were considered vital to the normal ruin of things.

Antarctica was a different matter entirely. You could watch the snow and you could watch the sky and you could watch your grumbling comrades and their grumbling enemies and the novelty wore off in roughly ten seconds.

Another reason Laserbeak was not as happy with his existence as he might otherwise have been was due to the presence of a muttering red Minicon on his back.

Swindle had been overjoyed (in Swindle's dictionary, this meant that he had _almost_ smiled) when his partner had appeared over the horizon, all of his limbs and the majority of his sanity intact. This optimistic feeling had prevailed bravely for all of two point eight seconds- a record, in Swindle's book.

The minute his sharp optics had seen the first tiny shift in the mountain high above, Swindle had jumped upon the bird's back and commanded him to go up. A long, strongly-worded threat had also been included in the command because, however resourceful and cunning the red racecar was, he was well aware that he was the only Minicon not currently perched safely on the shoulder of an Autobot. Crumplezone and Commettor remained lurking higher up, safely out of reach of the avalanche, whilst _he_ stood beside Red Alert's foot, trying to look useful.

Gathering all these facts together and quickly drawing up a mental sketch of what would happen to a four-foot robot standing on the edge of a cliff when it was hit by a million tons of snow, Swindle had done what any sensible creature would have done. He had shrieked unnaturally, leapt upon the nearest mechanical vulture and said that if it did not go up now, right this instant, then he, Swindle, would do all manner of unmentionable things to various parts of its body.

Laserbeak had gotten the idea.

He sat now, perched precariously on the back of the Autobot bird, watching the proceedings below with a damn lot more than detached interest.

It was over in thirty seconds, awesome in its power and beauty, terrible in its speed. The bumps and jagged edges along the mountainside that Swindle had had time to identify as 'landmarks' were submerged instantly, as though a white sheet had been rolled over them.

As the Minicon gazed down, feeling uneasily craven in his safety, his optics widened and his jaw sagged.

When it was _all_ over, he muttered, "Well, there's something new…"

* * *

Scavenger did not call out any warnings when he heard it. He simply wrenched Hot Shot off his feet, snatched hold of Red Alert with his other arm and pulled them both back as quickly as he could. And Scavenger could be quicker than a cobra when he wanted to be.

Perhaps if Cyclonus and Wheeljack had been standing within grabbing range he would have pulled them to safety too. As it was, the two Decepticons broke apart and turned to stare at the approaching cloud of doom with identical expressions of rigid horror. Cyclonus gave an animal yelp and tried to leap into the air, momentarily forgetting that he lacked the power to even hover. Landing ungracefully, he yelped again and shot to his feet, dashing towards shelter as fast as his legs would carry him…

…and realized that Wheeljack had not moved.

With a third yelp, this one produced by surprise, the orange-faced mech twisted his head back to see the black Decepticon, standing rigid in the path of the oncoming slide, a frozen deer with car headlights gleaming off its eyes. His mouth was an unmoving gash, his optics terrified and fascinated at the same time.

_Goofy idiot, oh yes, __**I'm**__ the crazy one…,_ thought Cyclonus as he turned and scampered towards his prone lab-partner with long, erratic strides that were the closest thing to a run the orange Decepticon was capable of.

"Wheeljack, this is really, _really_ not the time!" he hissed as he clamped a hand around his neck and pulled back with all his might. The black Decepticon moved like a rag doll, stumbling a few lifeless metres before his gaze was drawn inexorably back to the avalanche.

Accurately surmising how Megatron would react to losing his second favourite soldier, Cyclonus gritted his taste detectors, dug his fingers into Wheeljack's shell and simply shoved him.

Ice-optics flashing, the frozen warrior snapped out of it. Wordless, he turned around and sprinted beside Cyclonus to where the Autobots took shelter. The copter-bot would have loved the opportunity to make witty, cuttingly sarcastic remark but an unusual bout of terror-induced sense alerted him to the ghastly sound of _quite a lot of snow_ and mountainous debris preparing to make an entrance.

Wheeljack was swifter and skidded behind the outcrop before Cyclonus, almost skidding into Scavenger as he did so. Cyclonus almost made it. Almost. So close, in fact, that his arms curled around a sharp, crescent-shaped rock as he launched himself forward, just before the torrent blasted down the mountain behind him.

Gasping, Cyclonus clung even tighter to the rock as the avalanche caught his thin, exposed legs, dragging him back as though Megatron himself were trying to pull him into the path of the monster. The copter-bot resisted the urge to scream (not while the _Autobots_ were watching!), but felt his arms protest as the strain nearly ripped them off.

_Aww, scrap in the warehouse…_

* * *

Sideswipe jerked out of stasis as the computer terminal before gave a burst of static. Rearing back, he overbalanced himself, sent his arms out to flail wildly for support and, as they failed to find any, sent himself crashing to the floor in true Sideswipe style.

Across the room, Blurr gave absolutely no reaction save for a slight shaking of his head as his hands fiddled restlessly with the controls of his rifle.

With a sigh, Sideswipe hauled himself to his feet, watching as the sparks died away with interest. Looking around, the hacker noticed that all the other computers in the control room had done the same thing; a brief flash of energy before falling silent once more.

"An' what the slag was _tha'?_" growled Rave, looking up from his examination of the ceiling. Sideswipe shrugged in response, and the red Minicon rolled his optics, before slumping back to stare lifelessly upwards once more.

"That's odd…" murmured the youngest Autobot, peering at the nearest screen with rodent-like curiosity scribbled all over his grey faceplate. Looking closely, it was possible to see faint traces of blue fading from the glass. Very odd. Typing in a few commands, Sideswipe attempted for the nth time to contact Hot Shot and the others, and felt only a dull sense of disappointment when nothing happened. Either the communications systems were still down, or they were dead. Sideswipe frowned.

Out of the corner of one optic, he caught sight of Billy, who sat in typical One-Of-The-Kids fashion atop the handle of Blurr's second gun, dangling his legs. Sideswipe had adopted a quiet hobby of learning to interpret human emotions, and, from what he could make out, Billy looked less than happy.

Sideswipe liked the kids. He didn't like them as much as Hot Shot or Optimus liked them, and Carlos could always veer on the blatantly irritating, but he didn't dislike them with the same restrained contempt of Blurr or Scavenger. And Billy tended to be his favourite. And he was very, very bored. Thus it was that the youngest Autobot did skulk over to the human child, sit down beside him in a heap and proceeded to ask, "Hey, Bill? Wassup?"

He had heard Fred use this expression many times, and had a vague idea of what it meant. Billy looked up at him morosely, before returning his attention to the ground without a word. Sideswipe frowned again. Silence from a Kid? Weird. Still, Sideswipe knew exactly how to draw people out of bouts of depression. Granted, hugging was not an option here, but there were always alternatives. Lifted one hand, he carefully poked Billy's shoulder. The reward for this attempt came in the form of an angry scowl as the brown-haired boy lifted his head once more.

"Cut that out," he growled.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Sideswipe poked him again.

"I _said_ cut that out!"

Poke.

"Sideswipe…"

Poke. Poke. Poke.

The sound that escaped Billy's lips could roughly be equated to '_eeeergh!_'. Sideswipe had heard the same sound made by Blurr once or twice, after an hour of trying unsuccessfully to avoid the youngest Autobot. He looked at him quizzically, and yet again asked, "What's wrong?"

There was a moment of silence, and just as Sideswipe was considering poking the human again, he spoke.

"It's Fred," mumbled Billy.

Fred. Sideswipe's mainframe scrambled frantically and came up with the picture of Billy's fat, indetachable friend.

"Oh." Feeling this was not enough, the Autobot continued, "What about him?"

Billy sighed, tapping one finger against his knee in irritation, a gesture which Sideswipe understood to imply reluctance. Finally, the young biped spoke up. As he spoke, Sideswipe did one of the many things that the other Autobots would have been surprised to discover he was good at. He listened. Occasionally, for no reason in particular, he was reminded of Hot Shot.

* * *

This was it. So many battles, so much fun, so many years and now Cyclonus was sure he was about to be flung out over the edge of a cliff by a load of frozen hydrogen, to fall ten thousand feet before landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom as the snow rained down upon his deactivated corpse, burying him in cold.

Stupid planet. And to think, just this morning he'd been cheerfully tormenting Thrust and waiting for his shift on monitor duty, blissfully unaware that the day would hold anything more interesting than perhaps a Minicon hunt and few new dents.

Stress marks had begun to appear on his arms, miniature cracks opening near his joints. Icy sludge and rocks kept pounding against his exposed legs, leaving scratches that would take weeks to smooth over. If he was given the opportunity to smooth them over, that was. He was fifteen metres from the others. It might as well have been fifteen miles. Scavenger and Hot Shot clung to the rock to prevent from slipping over the edge, as the endless snow beat against it and rushed over the mountainside. Only Wheeljack was looking at him, and his face was ashen with terror, his fingers also clutching to the rock as indecision and frantic, helpless panic swamped the Decepticon's mind. Distantly, Cyclonus noticed that it was the largest amount of emotion he had ever seen Wheeljack reveal.

Not that it mattered. If Wheeljack had leapt forward in an attempt to save his skidplate, he would have been unable to pull Cyclonus back without also sliding over the edge. The rock they were hiding like rats behind was on an unluckily stern incline. Had the Autobots not been holding on for all they were worth (_which ain't that much_, thought Cyclonus with hysterical amusement), they would have long ago skidded down to join Cyclonus.

_I'm going to die. Wonder if it'll hurt? I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

Squeezing off his optics, Cyclonus felt his arms shudder and start to give way.

Something caught him.

The avalanche was slowing, but still possessed more than enough momentum to be lethal to a human and painful to a transformer. He went still, feeling a pair of arms steal around his exposed torso, winding round the rock to come together at his back. He continued sliding, but the arms were stubborn, pulling him back like a lifebelt.

Red Alert grunted as he clung to Cyclonus, damning his creator in every language he could remember for not having the sense to give him a full set of hands. The cable he had tied to the rock behind him kept them both from sliding away, but from his current position, moving backwards was still a nigh-impossible task. He was just about to bellow to one of the others to get the slag over here and help, when he felt a pair of hands take hold of his ankles and pull back. Almost weeping in relief, Red Alert lifted his head and found himself looking into a set of desperately confused, panicked optics. As, gradually, realization dawned on Cyclonus's face, Red Alert offered him a shaky grin that would have reminded anyone watching of the copter-bot himself.

Cyclonus only noticed that the avalanche had stopped when he wondered why he could no longer feel with irresistible pull on his legs.

It took time and a great deal of wriggling but eventually they worked their way back up to where Scavenger and Hot Shot waited, Cyclonus kicking against the ground and clinging to Red Alert, as Red Alert in turn was pulled back by an unseen pair of hands.

Turning at last to see who his mysterious saviour was, Red Alert turned and nearly gave a shocked, effeminate shriek at the sight of Wheeljack, his faceplate set into a thoughtful frown. If Hot Shot had been watching his old friend, rather than goggling at the dead mound of snow with wide optics, he would have been reminded of the scientist peering down a microscope, or staring at a particularly tricky piece of circuitry.

"Cyc, you okay?" he queried of the orange warrior, who took hold of the cable and yanked himself up to the relative safety behind the rock. Cyclonus shifted and gave the scientist a smirk that Red Alert judged to be far too Decepticon-like. Then he turned his head to the medic and gave him a twisty, almost embarrassed half-smile. Before growling, "This don't mean we're friends, med-boy."

With that, he darted to his feet and started to scramble up the incline to where Jetfire, Mayfly and the seekers were digging themselves out of the snow.

Red Alert stared after him, dumbstruck for a moment. Then he shook his head and started to follow the helicopter up.

* * *

The first time the power hit him, Hoist was strong enough not to cry out. The second time, he wasn't.

All his energy sensors flared to life at once, causing a sensation that bordered on sharp, horrible pain. He gritted his jaw and clenched his fingers, concentrating on allowing the energy to flow naturally into his hungry limbs.

It _hurt._

Optimus was handling it better than he was, of that he was certain. Of course, picking up on any emotion, never mind pain, was always a difficult task when faced with the Autobot leader. It wasn't simply the mask, mused Hoist, partly as a way of distracting himself. It was also the oft unsettling way that Prime seemed to have near-complete control over his every emotion. Apart from his unrelenting, merciless sense of kindness, it sometimes occurred to Hoist how very…cold his commander could be.

Not to say that, at the moment, Hoist wasn't very glad of his leader's stability. If Optimus had been doubled up from the pain of having generated energy rerouted directly into his systems, Hoist would have felt more justified in giving a scream of pain. As it was, with the Matrix-bearer standing there so complacently, barely flinching under the silent assault, the short Autobot shut off his vocals as best he could and succeeded in releasing no more than a soft whine.

Skyscan fidgeted. He had surrendered his position on Hoist's shoulder, and now stood a little way back from the two behemoths, just out of reach of potential shrapnel. He had not agreed to sit beside the humans, who were all by the entrance to the cave, staring on with dumb expressions of wonder. Skyscan gave a quiet snort. _Fleshies._

His lavender optics flickered once more to the smaller of the two white and blue Autobots. Hoist was trying his darndest not to show it, but the strain he was experiencing was obvious. For the first time in eons, Skyscan found a gnawing, dark little ball of worry in his spark that did not concern his own safety.

Not that he liked Hoist, of course! He didn't like any of the large transformers, Autobot or Decepticon. This said, it should be noted that most of the other Minicons disgusted him and the humans were an inconvenient annoyance at best. Skyscan had met a great many people in his life. He hadn't liked most of them. He had heard, at one point, of the word 'friends', but had never seen much use for it. Friends generally meant that there was one more person to drag along when the missiles started flying.

Hoist, however, was his chosen companion for the time being. He told himself it was because he still, technically, owed the Autobot his life. He would be considerably upset if the blue mech was blown to ash before he could make good his debt.

He settled himself against the cave wall, and fixed a glare on Hoist's back, daring him to explode while _he_ was looking. For some reason, after a while, the fat human came by and sat down beside him with a sigh, much to his annoyance. The generator glowed weakly, as both Autobots continued to remain standing.

The _trouble_ started exactly seven minutes later.

* * *

When Cyclonus discovered that he couldn't transform, he reacted in a way suitable to the situation and in a manner befitting the most disciplined Decepticon warrior.

"_AAAAAARGH!"_

It was a good thing, Scavenger reflected, that most of the snow that could come down had already done so.

What was also a good thing, Scavenger reflected still further, as he made his way towards the hysterical helicopter, was that at least one of those present was in a semi-sane frame of mind. Starscream and Jetfire didn't count.

It required less energy for Cyclonus to fly in vehicle mode than it did for Starscream to fly as a jet. On this basis, he had formed the theory that maybe, even though the seekers were no longer powerful enough to fly, just maybe he would be. And then he had tried to transform and _then_ he had discovered that he lacked the energy necessary to perform even that simple operation.

Therein lay the reason as to why he was now throwing a tantrum on the ground.

Arms flailing, incoherent noises of outrage flying from his vocals, the grounded flyer was a sorry, sorry sight. Starscream sneered, prodding the short warrior with his foot. When this produced no change, his lip curled down further, revealing a hint of the ugly mood he was in. A leg was drawn back to deliver a kick before Jetfire imploringly placed his hand on the seeker's wing, whereupon he sighed and relented, stalking off to stand on his own for a while.

Autobots and Decepticons alike stopped walking to watch Cyclonus with combined expressions of exhaustion, irritation and, in the case of Skywarp, dumb curiosity. By this point, having hauled their tired, aching shells three quarters of the way up a mountain that would have made even the most daring, intrepid climber say, "Now, hang_ on_…", most simply lacked the energy to do anything more than stare and wait until the fit passed.

Wheeljack turned to gaze upon his comrade with the same expressions as the rest, at first (although his was just a might more blank and apathetic than the others were). As he continued looking at the screeching, cursing Con, the corner of his mouth turned up and he gave a soft chuckle. Hot Shot snapped his head round in astonishment as Wheeljack raised his head and caught his eye. The smirk grew just a little and, to the amazement of all present, became a threadbare laugh. And what was the most amazing thing of all, Scavenger would decide later, was that at that second, Hot Shot's mouth also quirked up and he suddenly gave a gleeful chuckle.

And that was it.

Suddenly they were all laughing, Skywarp rolling onto the ground beside his wingmate as they playfully tickled and flung handfuls of snow at one another. This served only to produce further hysterics from the other Decepticons, even more from the Autobots. Mayfly was the only one who didn't join in, but she did cock her head in mild interest. It wasn't quite hysteria, though it ran in the same vein. At last, the relief of being alive, the horror of being stranded, alone but still together, proved too much of a strain and was released in huge, helpless gales of laughter that echoed up and down the cliff like tattered phantoms. Autobot, Decepticon, even the Minicons fell prey, trapped as they were in the same horrible place under the same loathsome circumstances. Even as Starscream snickered, his face was set into a deathly grimace, optics dark as wine as he and Jetfire collapsed, holding one another tightly as the merciless laughter tore them apart.

It was the laughter of the lost, painful, electrifying, and built up more tension than it released but in this cold, icy land of death and abandonment, it tasted sweet and free.

Cyclonus came out of his fit, blinked a few times, looked up and saw that practically everyone was either on the snow, clutching their sides, or standing doubled over, covering their mouths. He frowned.

"Will you psychos quit that?! We got a job to do!" he reminded them huffily, and wondered why he was so often surrounded by crazy people.

* * *

Watching Megatron's aura begin to turn a deep crimson, Demolisher felt a rekindling of the earlier, sickly feeling.

_Quit it,_ he told himself sternly. _He's _Megatron._ He can do this. He can do anything._

He watched as a shudder ran down his leader's back, the Minicons clinging to him like scared children. With a shiver that he couldn't quite suppress, Demolisher wondered if the transfer was hurting them, hurting Black-Out. He hoped not.

"Demolisher…" rasped Megatron, his smooth, elegant voice run ragged over the blunt blade of pain. "Acti...activate the next grid."

"Sir," protested the tank-bot, "we've still got to activate two more and-…"

"Shut…up," snarled the warlord, his curled fingers digging into the cold metal of his hands. "Activate the grid. It's almost finished…I can _feel _it! It's almost reenergized. Don't fail me now…_soldier._ Or-…_ernngh._"

The threat remained unspoken as Demolisher obediently activated the grid, looking worriedly at his leader as the red corona darkened still. Similar halos began to appear around the Minicons, and Demolisher bit his lip, glad that Impact wasn't able to see his face. For a moment, Megatron looked about to collapse, before the scaffolding of will was once more set into place and he stood up straight, features set into a determined grimace. His optics glowed with a dark, barbarian fire, fangs just visible in the light of the machinery as he poured his life's energy into the base.

But it was working. That much was plain to see. The generator had started to regain a healthy red glow, shadows leaping to dance on the walls like fire in a forge. A tentative grin spread a cross Demolisher's face, growing larger as the walls began to hum once more with power.

"He's actually doing it…" breathed Impact behind him, sounding satisfyingly shocked.

Demolisher was just starting to entertain the notion that maybe, just maybe, this plan would actually work, that for once, an idea of Megatron's would not go spectacularly awry, that maybe this would all be over in twenty minutes time, when the laser shot blew right past his head and slammed into Megatron's back.

The Decepticon leader roared as he was sent to his knees, his vision blurring and his mainframe sending up twenty separate warning messages at once. He felt the distress and alarm leaking off the Minicons like steam, making it even harder to think. Forcing his optics open, the Decepticon leader allowed a feral snarl to escape his vocal monitor, as he placed one hand on the generator to support himself.

A wash of calming cold swept over Megatron's mind as realization suddenly dawned and he turned around to face the corner of the room from which the shot had been fired.

Blood-red was met with ruby-pink.

"Hello, commander," said Sideways.


	14. Evitability

Evitability

As Sideways stared down at the fallen Decepticon warlord, who had mech fluid starting to ooze from his back and murder in his optics, he felt an insane, victorious cackle lodged in the back of his vocals. He let it out instead as a cruel chuckle, part of him regretting a lack of facial features with which to give Megatron a triumphant smile.

"What's the matter, Mighty Megatron, _great_ and _invincible_ leader of the Decepticons? Aren't you pleased to see me?" he drawled, making his voice as slickly oiled and piercing as possible. Watching with delight as Megatron's optics flickered brightly for an instant in the Cybertronian equivalent of a twitch.

Had Demolisher not been unarmed, low on energy and frozen to the spot, he would have leapt for the purple mech the second he laid optics upon that casual stance, that mocking pose of arrogance and aloofness. The treacherous incarnation stood less than twenty feet from where Megatron half-crouched, still clinging to the side of the humming machinery. He looked no different from the last time Demolisher had seen him. Well, the last time Demolisher had seen him before Megatron had paid him back for his treachery. But the Sideways before them now was not the mangled mess of a corpse he had been after battling Megatron, nor was he the snake-like, static-ghost-thing that had emerged from the wreck afterwards. He stood, whole, complete, as though he'd never gone away.

"You…" rumbled out Megatron, feeling the end of the thick cord that was his temper begin to slip through his fingertips. As far as he could ascertain from a glance, none of the Minicons were in apparent pain. This did not, however, detract from the fact that just about every other inch of him was. He nearly screamed in frustration. He'd been so close, so close to overcoming the weakness, the depletion of his body. _So close!_

"Me," replied Sideways, reminding Megatron vividly of Starscream for an unpleasant instant.

He didn't quite understand why he hadn't expected Sideways to appear before them like this. It didn't surprise him to learn that the unnatural thing could do it, no, not at all. But he had somehow presumed that the virus would play his little game, make his trouble and then giggle as he watched them try to salvage the situation. It hadn't occurred to him that Sideways would interfere like this, that he would cheat.

Megatron did not like cheating, as a rule. Of course, there was cheating and then there was _cheating_. Cheating was when somebody else did it, and was a cowardly, pathetic tactic employed by the weak and the immoral._ Cheating_ was when he did it, and that, he assumed, was quite different. Megatron could be remarkably simple in his logic occasionally.

He eyed the guns that were secured to the purple mech's arms (had they gotten larger since last he'd seen them?), suspecting that they worked far better than any of the Autobot or Decepticon guns were currently working. He also eyed the generator beside him, suddenly realizing how unpleasantly close it was.

Megatron weighed up his options. Unfortunately, all of them weighed less than the petal of a sick dandelion. In the opposite corner, Impact silently realigned his shiny, shoulder-mounted gun, his scarlet optics narrowed in concentration. Seeing this, Megatron quietly revised his opinion on the intelligence of his decision to recruit the large mech.

The shot was a good one. Had Sideways been a normal traitor, his internals would have sprayed themselves rather prettily against the wall. Had Sideways been normal, he wouldn't even have seen it coming.

Sideways was not normal.

As vermillion light streamed towards him, the motorcycle became a blur of colour. Demolisher's optics crossed, widened and flashed on and off several times as he stared mutely at the blackened wall that should, by all rights, have had pieces of scorched motorcycle decorating it. Looking around, his gaze was lured by some primitive instinct to where the purple mech in question stood, twenty metres away, in exactly the same pose.

_He's…gotten…faster…,_ thought Demolisher in numb horror.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now, now, children. Really. There is no need for all this," chided Sideways, and suddenly all Demolisher's terror evaporated into sheer, mech-fluid-thirsty rage. "After all, we all know who's in control here. Your charming little schemes have been really quite amusing to watch."

"Coward," growled Megatron, stalling for time as his mind raced feverishly over the possibilities. Making his voice as taunting and brazen as he could, the warlord continued. "I was unaware that you had taken time out to increase your speed, traitor. It makes sense, I suppose. All the better to run away, hmm?"

The purple incarnation gave no reaction other than a slight brightening of his optics. Letting his gaze slide, Demolisher noticed that, however calm he may appear to be, both of Sideways's hands were curled into claws. The tank-bot smiled to himself. Good. Yeah, that was good. It seemed to go a little way to reassuring his faith in certain universal truths. For example, that it didn't matter if it was an enemy, a rival, a god, a wall or even a demonic collection of static gunge, at the end of the day, there was nobody in creation whom Megatron could not, in some small way, annoy.

"Yes, commander, I'm sure you'd like to stall for time with your childish little intimidation tactics", replied Sideways in a voice several degrees colder than a snow cone. "However, the joke, as they say, is ove-…"

His suave, flawless monologue to the helpless Decepticon commander was cut short at that point, as his smooth, syrupy tone morphed into an alarmed squawk. Huge, black fingers closed inexorably around the small mech's torso as an immense shadow loomed from out the darkness of the generator room's entrance. Sideways hissed liked a an enraged tabby, twisted round as best he could and found himself staring into twin golden beacons, both set into a thick, emotionless face like diamonds embedded in rock.

"Tidal Wave does not like jokes," rumbled Tidal Wave.

* * *

If there was one thing Skyscan hated, he decided, it was clones.

In truth, there were many things Skyscan hated. The list of things Skyscan hated could have been utilized to wallpaper every clean surface on Cybertron.

Although, admittedly, given the number of clean surfaces on Cybertron, this was hardly saying a lot.

Nevertheless, had Skyscan been asked at that exact moment what it was he hated the most, he would have answered, "Clones."

Specifically, it was mute, purple, zombie-like clones that appeared in a pack of five just when your commanding officer was busy transferring the bulk of the energy from his starship into his own body. There was a nasty moment of unbroken silence. Then Hoist said, very quietly, "Optimus…what do we do?"

They were all identical. They were all Sideways, save for the dim grey optics and the fact that they hadn't actually spoken yet. They all had the familiar grey guns attached to their arms. And somehow they all knew, much the same as Megatron had just known, that these guns were very much alive and very much keen and eager to get in a good day's work.

Skyscan did the only thing he could think of. He shrieked, jumped and ran into the farthest corner of the cavern, every fibre of his being suddenly alive with unholy terror. Fred, who had been taking the opportunity to hide behind the silver Minicon, now gave a muffled gulp, and scurried to where Rad and Carlos were now lurking, both making vaguely irritating noises of surprise and alarm at the sudden turn of events.

Before Hoist could even realign his train of thought, one of the look-alike drones raised its arm, aimed directly at the generator, and fired.

The constructionists, when working on the Axalon, had taken a number of factors into consideration. One was just how much polish they could legally get away with. Appearance had always been important to Autobot engineers, so they had invested a liberal amount of time into giving the whole thing a sleek, polished, obnoxiously noble look. It was a look that Autobots tended to go in for, if only because, on some deep, subconscious level, they were utterly aware of how much the average Decepticon would hate it.

However, they had also had sense enough to prepare for all eventualities. Make it tough, they had said, make it durable. In a world filled with laser fire in the morning and inter-dimensional rifts tearing open the universe in the afternoon, not to mention the fact that casual space travel was, these days, about as easy as taking a brisk stroll up Olympus dressed in naught but a worn, long-exhausted pair of underpants… When one considered these factors, safety and durability suddenly became a whole lot more important than making it nice and shiny.

And thus it was that some intelligent soul, foreseeing just how many disasters the Minicon ship could encounter in its journey, had spent a great deal of time reinforcing every inch of the generator's hull and frame. Because of the large amount of armour and outer plating it was equipped with, the generator itself was about four times larger than it really needed to be.

Which was why, when Hoist next dared to reactivate his optics, he was greeted with the sight of a few tendrils of smoke arising from the mechanical, porcupine-like construction but not, thankfully, the sight of his own limbs scattered over eighteen miles.

_It won't stand up to many more of those_, he thought with grim certainty, just before conscious thought dissolved entirely and he wrenched a gun from subspace with a fuel-chilling yell. Beside him, he distantly heard Prime groan as the backlash from the disrupted transfer sent half his sensory circuits spiralling into disarray.

Through electric fog, Optimus could make out five blurred purple figures, standing in a half-moon shape before them. As far as he ascertain, the children were under no immediate threat, although how long this would last once he and Hoist had been blown to molecular dust he couldn't say. Valiantly, the Autobot leader attempted to wrench his energy-frazzled thoughts into alignment, but all he could focus on was the dull burning sensation that was spreading through his limbs. The shot had torn some of the cables loose from Hoist's torso, leaving a positive torrent of power to flood directly into his body.

But leadership took over.

Optimus had had four million years experience at leadership. Leadership was his natural state of being. Over time, it had become what he defaulted to in times of stress, much like a child under threat will curl into a ball on the floor. Not because it thinks that it will help matters, but because some things are ground into the soul.

Fighting to control the tremble in his hands, Optimus raised his arms out before him, splaying his fingers wide. Had he seen the look of horror on Hoist's face, he would have understood why. The energy sphere that formed in his hands was not the normal blue and red affair that had dispelled so many enemies in the past. It was a dark, vicious maroon.

A shocked gap tore loose as he flung it, astonished at the pain that crackled up his arms.

_Memo to me: Over-charged spheres _hurt.

It served its purpose, though, soaring gracefully across the room and thudding into the chestplate of one of the mute clones. The thing flickered and burst into static, before disappearing entirely with a series of faintly revolting sounds. The others barely seemed to notice, much as they completely ignored the shots Hoist was landing on them. In sinister silence and perfect synchronization, they raised their arms to fire.

_Oh, blast._

* * *

It wasn't in Demolisher's nature to cackle with evil delight. The sort of thing he left up to Megatron and other people who could pull it off without sounding like an idiot. Demolisher, sadly, had never been able to achieve a cackle of such evil and malice as to install fear into an Autobot's spark-box, no matter how valiantly he tried. Looking at Sideways now, however, held like a morsel of human food before a fat biped's mouth, he was tempted.

"Ah," Megatron said weakly, staring at his Sea Commander with a modicum of new respect before pulling himself together and continuing. "Tidal Wave. I order you to dispose of that traitor. Now. At once. This minute!"

Tidal Wave looked thoughtful, hesitating only because it took time for an order to process through his head entirely. Once it had done so to his satisfaction, he nodded. Lifting one mammoth fist with an air of great concentration, he scrutinized Sideways in the manner of a neat housewife about to dispose of an irksome insect. The purple mech gave an unintelligible shriek of fury, sounding briefly more akin to rabid bat than his normal, silver-tongued self.

As the fist swooped down like judgement divine, a sunset-coloured corona formed around Tidal Wave's antagonized captive.

Demolisher watched in amazement as Tidal Wave reared back and howled, dropping Sideways as the traitor let loose a relay-frying amount of power. White fire lanced into Tidal Wave's hand, rocketing up the behemoth's arm. For an instant, Demolisher could have almost sworn that Sideways's optics gleamed _black_, black as onyx, black as the eyes of eagles.

_How…the…what? He can't do that! He can't DO that!_

As Sideways got to his feet yet again, Demolisher realized that he was standing there gaping, his gun-hand slack and unmoving. He cursed himself. How many times had he done this? How many times had he allowed himself or his commander to be horribly beaten just because he wasn't focusing on the objective? How many times?

Granted, it was largely due to the fact that confusion and concern had reduced most of his mental processes to scrambled egg, but still. He was a Decepticon warrior. He should have been above this sort of thing.

Tidal Wave had collapsed backwards, clutching at his arm and making soft grunts of pain. Looking at him, Demolisher fought to suppress a wave of sickness. He wasn't concerned about Tidal Wave; Tidal Wave could more than take care of himself. What was worrying him was that if Sideways's newfound ability could do that to huge, unstoppable Tidal Wave then _ye gods and Primus almighty_, what the slag were their chances like?

Sideways stood, and smirked coldly. It had required quite a lot of power to recreate his old form and maintain the clones, but he'd been in perfect control until that wretched brainless brute of Megatron's had grabbed him. He had been slightly worried to note that Megatron had been in no way completely felled by his shot, once again persisting in his stubborn refusal to die. Typical, really. To his surprise, they actually seemed to be doing rather well. He'd expected hysterics, irrational fury and, eventually, complete surrender. Obviously, he was going to have to be a bit more…persuasive.

Giving them a suave, invisible smile, he raised his arms, allowing to power to mass up behind his fingertips…

…and felt the icy touch of metal as the gun chinked quietly against the back of his head.

"Now," said a silky voice not unlike his own in its deceptive charm, "why don't you reach for the ceiling, hmm?"

Sideways snarled to himself as Thrust came out of stealth-mode behind him. This was rapidly getting out of hand.

Whipping around faster than any of them watching could trace, he fluidly raised up his own fist and sent it cracking along Thrust's jaw. The tactician gasped and was sent sprawling. Even Sideways was impressed at how quickly the green jet rolled into recovery, bringing up his weapon again and opening fire on the traitor.

Darting to get out of range, Sideways leapt closer to Megatron and the generator, intending to get finished with it all and escape as soon as possible. The situation had suddenly lost its charm.

He got three steps before red and blue lightning rained down upon him, stinging his mortal shell and tearing at his already damaged armour. Turning, Sideways was met with the unpleasant sight of Demolisher, a slow, calculating look on his face as he fired yet again, scoring a hit on the smaller mech's shoulder.

Bringing his arm up instinctively to shield his optics, Sideways spat out words like acid rain, and snarled at them.

"Why…you filthy…loathsome…pathetic…_ unngh_!"

There was the power of six Minicons and Megatron's own temper behind the blast. It blossomed, a deadly rose, leapt forward and sent Sideways flying through the air to crash against the wall horribly.

Wincing as plates tore loose and circuitry was disconnected, Sideways looked up to see the Decepticon warlord. With energon starting to leak from his mouth, drawn from ruptured fuel lines unable to stand the strain, with his still-smoking fusion cannon brought to bare and supported by one powerful arm, with power radiating from his stance and murder on his face and the light of a thousand storms in his optics, the leader of the Decepticons was not the most comforting sight.

Laser fire erupted around him once more as Thrust, Demolisher and Impact all opened fire on the hapless demon, Sideways stared up into Megatron's optics and found himself defeated.

"Now get _out,_" rasped the purple Decepticon, gazing coldly at Sideways as the traitor's shell started to dissolve.

His armour falling away and his exposed chassis catching fire, Sideways screeched an unholy curse at the leader, before accepting defeat with ill grace.

The burnt-out hull fell to the ground as the virus that was Sideways leapt from it, a thing of silver and snake-like coils. Ruby optics burned at them before the creature shot up and disappeared through the ceiling, leaving no trace behind but a smoking shell and the stench of destruction.

In the silence that followed, thick with the sound of a lot of people struck quite, quite speechless, Thrust turned and offered his commander a small, ineffably oily smile.

"We heard there was a bit of commotion, commander," he stated, employing the smarmiest voice in his repertoire.

There was a drawn-out moan as Tidal Wave pitched backwards and collapsed to the floor, his primary reserves utterly spent. As Thrust went to aide his depleted comrade and Impact moved to assist Megatron, only to be brushed away with a growl, Demolisher stared at the wall against which lay the charred remains of the fiendish immortal who had descended as a god from on high in a cunning attempt to smite them, and entertained but one thought.

_Slag, it's gonna take _days _to repair that wall._

He sighed.

* * *

Step.

Step.

Step.

The lines between factions, worn soul-deep by nine million years of war, started to fall by the wayside as they struggled upwards, always upwards. Hot Shot had succumbed five minutes ago, stumbling to the ground with a retching groan, unable to get up. Wordless, Scavenger had reached down and effortlessly hoisted the young Autobot over one shoulder, before continuing upward, always upward. Cyclonus, almost as badly drained but quite a bit tougher, leaned against Red Alert, who supported the majority of his weight.

Step.

Step.

Later, Cyclonus would think that it was a kind of magic. He wouldn't confess his thoughts to anybody, of course, not under threat of death, but that was what it felt like. They, alone, the lost and bedraggled debris of their respective factions, marched, weary and frightened, together up the slope. (Well, technically the trudging, stumbling lope which most were pulling off could hardly be defined as a 'march', amended his Decepticon sensibilities, and ran away when he growled at them.)

But no insults were offered, not even the playful ones which Decepticons normally used to relieve tension. Nothing was said but the thought was there. A kind of steely purpose had infected them all, as they'd rolled laughing in the snow. A belief forced their feet to move, a silent belief that they would make it to the top. All of them. No one would be left behind, and to the pit with the odds. Simply to spite whatever _bastard _had put them here, Autobot and Decepticon alike had decided that they were going to survive this. They had to. If only to hunt down and kill whoever was responsible, they had to.

Cyclonus was tired, angry and confused. The notion occurred, however, as they moved on, that perhaps, just perhaps, he didn't mind. He was always confused, and anger was one of the all-prevailing aspects of any laser-fodder Decepticon's day. For the first time since what felt like forever, he was grounded. His thoughts came slowly, difficultly in the cold, but they were all perfectly clear. Concentrating on walking, just walking, just leaning against the med-boy and making it to the top, he could pretend he was sane. It was…kinda nice, actually.

_O' course_, a fragment of intrinsic Cyclonus grumbled, it would be even nicer if his energy-banks would reactivate. Better still if he could find some way to recharge his guns. And all he'd need then would be a few rounds of 'Let's Decimate The Landscape With Target Practice,' and then, perhaps, a nice, long nap…

Step.

Red Alert, who had a mind far more pragmatic and far less romantic than the orange copter-bot's, mused that it wasn't all that surprising. On Earth, and a vast number of other planets, animals grouped together for survival, huddling to protect each other as though possessed by some strange idea that to lose one would be to lose all. Red Alert, who, before joining up with Optimus Prime, had dabbled in psychology, often wandered if transformer minds were really all that different from organic ones. This was a concept that would have deeply disturbed many robots, but Red Alert was a medic. From what he could make out, humans themselves weren't as unalike transformers as he had first believed. Which was one of the reasons why he had so freely agreed to baby-sit the kids so often and without protest. It was really quite fascinating, when one considered…

He analytically mulled over these sort of thoughts, supported Cyclonus, and was satisfied.

Step. Step. Step.

Jetfire and Starscream walked behind the rest, to the seeker's chagrin. The Minicons rested on his shoulders, Runway and Sonar curling up together like cats as Jetstorm and Swindle sat on the other side. Thundercracker and Skywarp were nearby, Skywarp occasionally shooting Jetfire curious glances or, as the mood took him, ridiculous faces.

"Hey, Starscream," Thundercracker spoke up suddenly, a chuckle in his deep voice. Starscream snapped his gaze to him in wary interest. "Do you remember that time back on Snorgon? Y'know, with all that geeky pink hail?"

The red seeker started at him blankly for a moment, optics narrow. Then a small grin started to creep across his faceplate. His optics brightened and he gave a raspy snigger.

"When Skywarp crashed into those power lines?" he queried, a crooked grin emerging.

The tall blue seeker gave an identical grin, nodding. "This is kinda like that, y'know? Only, like, worse?"

"Well, actually" mused Starscream, looking fiendishly thoughtful, "I am more put in mind of our brief stint on the Planet Maver, Thundercracker. Remember? When it rained that awful icy green stuff for five hours and you got buried beneath a flurry?"

"Yeah!" said Thundercracker eagerly, barely noting the jibe. "That was lousy, huh? Which was worse, do you think? Maver or Snorgon?"

"_This_."

It wasn't a proper conversation, Jetfire realized, observing the seekers. Well, it was, in a way, but the words were only a medium in which to convey the deeper meaning. Inane and uncharacteristically silly as it was, the conversation carried an undertone of reassurance, optimism, humour, a type of deep, unchangeable affection between the red seeker and the blue. Skywarp, he noted, hovered on the outskirts, trying to pretend he wasn't listening but unable to prevent his curious gaze from wandering to his ex-wingmate now and then.

It was not forgiveness, nor was it atonement or apology. But both fell into the old routine easily, comparing various solar systems they'd visited and asteroid storms they'd flown in. The ultimate conclusion, at the end of the day, was that this was, beyond any doubt, the absolute worst.

Jetfire fell into a lull as he listened to the seekers' contrasting voices, snickering and sniping as they made their way upwards. Had he been paying attention, he might have noticed the way Scavenger rolled his optics and grumbled to himself, or the way the corners of Wheeljack's mouth twitched slightly.

He might have at least had the foresight not to walk into Starscream's wing when their little procession came to an abrupt halt. Earning himself a yelp and a swipe from the disgruntled ex-Decepticon.

"We're here," Red Alert called, and Jetfire's exuberant whoop of joy echoed up and down the slope.

* * *

Skyscan panicked easily. It was not a trait most would have expected of the cynical Minicon, but it was one that had haunted him most of his life. Logical thought just didn't seem to be an option whenever the danger approached. Which might have been why, as he watched the clones take aim on the generator, Hoist and Optimus Prime, he did the first thing that occurred to him.

And _that_ was why, as Sideswipe and Blurr ran into the cavern, they were almost immediately knocked off their feet by the force of the earthquake.

It took a lot to make Optimus groan, particularly the sort of long, heart-felt groan he gave upon watching the ground begin to shake. His gaze drawn by deduction rather than instinct, he noticed Skyscan standing with his fists clenched and his taste-detectors gritted.

_I knew that letting him keep that ability was a bad idea, _he thought miserably, and then felt disgusted with himself. 'Letting him', indeed. Yet again, he was thinking of the Minicon as something subservient. Just a tool that could be switched off whenever it was no longer being useful or benign…

…_eleven of them, working together on some new tower of some kind, lifting, carrying, chatting in their strange, computer-speech, paying no attention to the overseer with the red symbol emblazoned on his shoulder as he boredly observed them building…_

_And then the war._

…_eleven of them, being made to powerlink to one mammoth transformer (Autobot or Decepticon? Prime found he couldn't remember. Did it matter? Both sides had repeated the same, sorry scene so many times), not protesting, merely following orders as they always had…_

_And sometimes, when they'd been low on medics, they'd pressed the Minicons into service, those small fingers achieving more delicate, detailed repairs than any normal transformer could have._

…_eleven of them as he'd walked past the repair bay, eleven working to repair an Autobot and he'd noticed, he'd noticed how, though their work was as obediently done as it had been when they were building towers, there was now no chatting as they toiled, no strange, computer-speech laughter…_

_And then, rebellion._

…_massacre, thirty Autobots and who knew(or cared?) how many Decepticons dead as the miniature transformers made for their ship and he remembered thinking, realizing, that there was no particular malice in the murder of those who stood between them and freedom, just a pragmatic removal of any obstacle in their path…_

Truth told, both factions had hardly noticed, by then, the war had erupted for the second time and once more al the mattered was fighting and, to Prime, stopping Megatron. Always, stopping Megatron.

And yet it was often easy to think of them in such a way. As tools. Upon awakening, Optimus would have expected most of the Minicons to be hostile, to run or fight. The sheer…resignation had come as a shock.

Despite the fact that a war was being waged over them, most of the Minicons seemed almost…indifferent as to whom they served. With the strange exception of the legendary sword and shield components, all of whom seemed to have taken a distinct liking to the Autobot cause, he thought. And Highwire's companions, who were positively obsessed with it. But Skyblast's team had never been particularly devout and most of the others were so gentle-natured that it was only occasionally that flashes of their apathy shone through. Starscream's talking Minicon (_Swindle,_ he hastily amended, _Swindle_) obviously could have cared less about the whole dispute. Optimus didn't expect every Minicon they rescued to fall to his or her knees and weep with gratitude but…

He cut himself off abruptly. No. What they were doing was right, he sure of it. Stopping Megatron and fighting the Decepticons and rescuing the Minicons. (It wouldn't be until later when he realized just what order he'd arranged the list in.) It was ridiculous to think that one could throw a creature into the midst of a war, after spending a short eternity in stasis, and then demand why it wasn't rejoicing in its newfound freedom.

_That's because freedom has to be found_, a little voice muttered. You could take away the chains and you could apologize for any earlier misunderstandings but real freedom took more than a gun and a fresh, diplomatic outlook.

And so he'd tried to befriend them, get them to understand why they should fight. Stopping Megatron was the main objective, after all. Sometimes it felt as though Stopping Megatron was the only objective there had ever been. More often than not, recently, a dark murmur in his mind had begun to voice the opinion that it was.

But if there was one thing that both Optimus Prime and Megatron had learnt over the years, however obsessive either had become in pursuit of their objectives, it was this; Do Not Underestimate The Minicons. Whatever happened, you Never Underestimated The Minicons.

Because the Minicons were dangerous.

A fact that Optimus was reminded of as he felt the very earth beneath the spaceship floor begin to tremble.

And then he snapped from his reverie and caught the Skyboom Shield as Sideswipe tossed it to him, raising it to shield the generator from the clones. Across the room, he saw Blurr pull out is rifle and fire off a multitude of high-powered shots, none missing their mark. Sideswipe pulled out his own gun and made a commendable effort, actually managing to not hit any of his comrades by accident in the process.

Optimus held the shield as steadily as he could, and lost control.

The flow of generated energy, which had almost stabilised under the strength of his concentration, began to fluctuate wildly. The ends of the cables burned against his connection modules as, behind him, the generator emitted a high-pitched whining sound. Power was ripped from his systems so suddenly that he was sent to his knees, still gripping onto the shield. As he shut his optics off, he felt the same power bunch up in the cords, preparing to leap. Beyond the darkening veil, Optimus could make out the silhouettes of the clones as they began to disintegrate under the continual fire.

The energy soared down the lines and the world was white and blue and gold before he surrendered into silent, beautiful black.

* * *

When time returned, he was greeted with voices.

"Do you think he's _dead_?"

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying, do you think he might be dead? I mean…if he's dead, what do we do?"

"Sideswipe, did I or did I not just tell you to shut up?"

"Yeah, but-…"

"He said shut up. So shut up."

"Yes, commander Blurr."

"And don't call me that."

_Well, that's my men accounted for_, he thought, wondering if he dared to reactivate his optics.

"Hey, Carlos, check this out! Look at all the wires!"

"Cool, man!"

"D'you guys think he's okay?"

"Aw, sure, Fred, he's fine. He's _Optimus_!"

And _that _would be the kids.

"I think my mainframe's melting. Just thought I'd mention that."

And there was Skyscan. That seemed to cover all those he could identify by voice, so Optimus decided he'd best take a look and see how much damage had been done. He activated his optics and sat up, instantly greeted with sighs of relief from Hoist and Blurr and cheers from the kids, who were gathered around his left foot. The Skyboom Shield was still clenched tightly between his fingers, a trifle singed but otherwise intact.

"Glad to have you back, sir," smirked Hoist, looking more than a trifle singed and holding a wrench above the exposed circuitry of his torso.

Before Optimus could ask any of the ten million questions that were currently vying for position, he was interrupted by the sound of a long, drawn-out yell of eternal rage and carnage that echoed throughout both the cave and Prime's aching head. Wincing, he looked over to the entrance.

Rave burst into the room like a localized hurricane, axe held high and the light of slaughter in his optics. Looking around, though, his eager gaze quickly detected the alarming lack of any moving opponents, whereupon he slumped dejectedly, the axe falling to touch the ground. For a brief, alarming instant, it looked as if the red Minicon was going to burst into tears.

"Ach, no! Don't ye bloody tell me there's none left!" he wailed.

The wrench that Hoist hurled at him missed by seven inches.


	15. Burn

Burn

"So?"

The syllable hung in the air and gathered frost.

Red Alert attempted a winning grin. The look on Scavenger's face did not alter one blip. The medic gave a rather nervous sound that a human would have translated as a cough. In fact, it was merely a sound made by any flustered Autobot or Decepticon scientist to express a certain degree of nervousness at the fact that they are having to admit something that, under the circumstances, they'd really rather not.

"Well?" said Jetfire, his expression a mirror of everyone else's. Behind him, Red Alert heard Starscream give a soft growl.

Red Alert was a medic. He was not used to being nervous, and was rapidly discovering how much he disliked it. In his day, he had faced down deranged, gun-toting Decepticons, megalomaniacal warlords and the howling wrath of Optimus Prime himself. This was a record that even Blurr would have been impressed by. However, standing before a group of frozen, tired, irritable transformers who all had that same look on their faces, the blue Autobot confessed himself unnerved.

He coughed again.

"As I said, if I can work the connections for our communications devices into Mayfly's auxiliary power terminal, I may be able to-…"

"Red," grated Jetfire in a low voice, "I thought you had a plan."

Red Alert's expression was never easy to read, but his optic band dimmed slightly in a flicker of quailing apology.

"I do," he insisted, his voice sounding weak and pathetic even to his own audios. "It's just that it's not quite…ready to work just yet."

"Don't worry," he added swiftly, picking up on the second, slightly louder growl from behind. "I'm sure that I've got it figured out. With a few tricks and some reconnections I should be able to work up enough power to send a distress signal. That'll let them know where we are, at least. If they can get the warp gates up and running, one of our commanders should be able to find us. It'll just take me a second to rig up the com-links and reconnect some circuitry, that's all."

"How long," queried Jetfire, a note of distinct menace entering into his words, "is a second, Red?"

"Oh, a minute or so," replied the medic blithely, wanting very much to get out from the heat of Scavenger's glare.

"One minute?" asked Jetfire, his vocals sounding almost hopeful.

"Well…"

"And just how long is _one minute_, hmm?" rasped Starscream snippily.

"About…twenty?"

The jovial, trying-so-very-hard-to-please tone in Red Alert's voice shrivelled under nine identical glares.

On the ground, Jolt was muttering a few very fast, very explicit beeps. From the accompanying computer-speech of Commettor and Runway, Red Alert suspected that they were agreeing with him. Red Alert suddenly found himself wishing that Long Arm was with them. His conscience prickled him at the tempting thought of drop kicking the little warriors.

Jetfire sighed, shut his optics off, and activated them again.

In a resigned, tired voice, he said, "Okay. Right. Fine. You'd better get to work then." Raising his voice, he gave orders to the others. "Everyone, sit down and take a break. How're we doing for energy?"

There were a few muffled grunts here and there, but the Decepticons all kept stubbornly silent, offering only proud, contemptuous glares or derisive snorts.

'_**Cons**_, thought Jetfire despairingly.

As the others located themselves flat patches of icy plateau to sit on, a flat, cold voice rang out. Hearing it, Jetfire gave a silent groan.

"Wait."

Wincing and filled with well-masked dread, Jetfire turned to regard Wheeljack. The black Decepticon's optics burned determinedly on, though they were defiantly dimmer than they had been a while ago.

"What's he going to do?" asked the car in the same emotionless voice, indicating Red Alert with a jerk of his head.

Jetfire's battered mind worked frantically as it tried to think up a plausible answer, before Red Alert's quiet sigh cut him off. Glancing at the medic, the sun-white shuttle noticed that he had chosen one of his many always-on-hand tools from subspace. It looked to Jetfire rather like the one he had categorized as 'The Faintly Sinister White One That Hurts Like All Krell'.

"Don't worry," began Red Alert, staring directly at the younger mech, speaking in his flat, expressionless medic voice. "It's perfectly safe. All I need to do is-…"

-…and here he launched into a technologically thorough explanation that made Jetfire's cranium feel like giving up and making for Cybertron while the going was good. To the shuttle's surprised indignity, Wheeljack appeared to understand perfectly, and gave a nod when Red Alert had finished. Despite this, he still looked grimly unconvinced.

"How can I be sure that you won't try and damage my Communications Officer during this 'operation'?" he demanded, glaring beadily at the medic. Despite himself, Red Alert felt his patience start to wane.

"I've told you, there should be no reason to-…"

"Nonetheless, what assurance do I have that you-…"

"For the last time-…"

"_Why doncha just rig it up with 'im, 'Jack, ya paranoid freak?"_

Red Alert started, and turned to where Cyclonus had been deposited, leaning up against a jagged rock. The smallest Decepticon was regarding his temporary commander with an impatient scowl that was two inches away from insubordination.

_Uh oh_, thought the science officer, who was experienced at working with people.

Wheeljack bristled, glaring back at his lab-partner. Instantly, the atmosphere was filled with tension so thick that Red Alert wondered if the two ruthless warriors weren't about to actually go for each other.

After ten seconds, Wheeljack ceded, dimming his optics in agreement and relaxing all of three circuits. For some odd reason, Red Alert found himself put in mind of wolves as Cyclonus gave the darker fighter a grin that humans would have described as 'toothy'.

"Well, why not, huh?" said the copter-bot, suddenly sounding childishly eager and petulant all at once. Wheeljack retreated into a faint frown as he considered the potential for getting back to base versus the disdain at helping an _Autobot_. Jetfire inspected a non-existent crack on his arm whilst Red Alert fiddled with his tools, both working hard to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. Starscream and Mayfly, the only other two watching, gazed on with remarkably similar expressions of bored interest. It was an especially Decepticon look that Jetfire was learning to interpret as "I wonder if anyone's going to get killed in a nastily interesting way?"

At last, Wheeljack reached some inner conclusion, and straightened up. He faced Red Alert, gave a curt nod and moved to where Mayfly sat, waiting. Red Alert looked at his back for a moment, before sighing, shaking his head, and taking out a few more tools. After which the tension was swift to dissolve.

Cyclonus grunted and lay back against his rock, muttering something about 'crazy people.' Mayfly transformed into her pyramid-shaped computer alt-mode, and waited on the snow. Starscream exchanged a deeply empathetic look with Jetfire, who moved to sit beside his wings.

Snow crunching beneath him, he made himself comfortable, greeting his aerial partner with a grunt. He made sure to position himself not too close to the seeker; Starscream enjoyed physical contact infrequently, and touching was a rare luxury. Therefore, Jetfire contented himself with huddling against the rock, one wing just brushing the other's.

Two seconds later, he blinked in surprise and peered sideways at the seeker, curled against the arched curve of his wing.

Suppressing a sudden urge to snicker, Jetfire reached out and draped an arm over the red jet's cannons. He made a deliberate point of ignoring the glower that Skywarp sent his way. Exhausted in every way possible, he shut his optics off and listened to the icy silence arise between the two factions, broken only by the occasional strand of mind-breaking scientific babble from the two working on Mayfly. And so time passed.

He awoke to the sound of gunfire and wasn't even surprised.

* * *

It took a lot of explaining before Optimus could feel as though he had any sort of coherent grip upon the situation.

"Let me get this right," he said at last, steepling his fingers in a gesture that he hoped would inspire calm and patience. It didn't.

"You are saying that he is now capable of…making things. Manipulating matter larger than he is."

Sideswipe twiddled his fingers nervously. Blurr gave a brisk, military nod. Hoist coughed and mumbled, "Seems that way, sir." Optimus gave a nod. A very precise nod.

"Replicating himself, for example."

Twiddle, twiddle. Brisk nod.

"And…we were unaware of this?"

Hoist mumbled something before raising his voice slightly in self-defence and said, "Well, we knew he was capable of infecting our computers and surviving annihilation at Megatron's hands, sir. Guess it stands to reason that he's a bit more powerful than we thought. Sir."

_Sir_. It was a word his men had a habit of over-using whenever they didn't want to get promoted to Head Polisher And Sweeper Of Every Last Inch Of The Base. Optimus gave another calm nod, steadfastly suppressing the whimper.

"And do we have any estimation-any at all-of how powerful he really is?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No, sir."

"I see. Hoist, am I going to ask you a…question, and I would appreciate your honest opinion as a mechanic and member of the Autobot Elite Team."

"Yessir."

"Hoist…what is he?"

"Don't know, sir."

Well, thought Optimus, that, at least, took care of that. If they knew nothing, there was nothing he didn't know. Excellent. Now to the other matter.

"Hoist?"

"Yessir?"

"Why am I alive?"

The overload should have killed him. He'd felt it, crushing power massed just an inch away, ready to kill him, wanting to kill him. When he'd lost control and blanked out it had had the opportunity. Logic dictated that he should never have emerged from stasis.

"Couldn't say, sir."

"Er…"

The dubious syllable came from Sideswipe, who quailed as the Autobot leader's sudden steely gaze snapped around to scrutinize him.

"Yes, Sideswipe?" asked Optimus, as nicely as he could.

Sideswipe cast a pleading glance at Nightbeat, who immediately focused his attention on a small crack in the wall. Looking closely, Optimus noted that the small Minicon was tapping his foot lightly on the ground. Seeing that no assistance would be coming up, Sideswipe sighed and moved his optics reluctantly to where the Skyboom Shield Minicons stood, a little way away. They had disbanded once Optimus had released his hold on them, saying almost nothing. This hadn't been as alarming as it might have been, as the three yellow Minicons were generally quieter than either the Air Defence Team or Perceptor's gestalts. He'd given them an obligatory thanks, to which only Mirage had responded, giving a curt nod before moving off to join his brothers. Following Sidewipe's line of vision, Prime noticed for the first time how badly singed they were.

"Well…"

The uneasiness in Sideswipe's tone did not serve to calm the large Autobot's nerves, but he made himself remain still.

"Yes?" Optimus prompted hopefully.

Another big sigh, before, "Nightbeat was just telling me something about what happened back there sir. He thinks…he thinks that the Skyboom Shield…did something."

If Sideswipe noticed the way Optimus's optics took on a dangerously tense glint, he gave no indication. After a pause that only the youngest Autobot could have failed to mark as 'tense', he continued in his oration, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"He said…I'm not really sure if I understand…but…they…he said they…"

At last, the words came out in a tumble, eager to have done with themselves.

"He said they caught the excess when you took hold of them, sir."

Optimus stared. He still did not understand, but something like comprehension was beginning to flicker on the horizon. A black ball of horror was taking form.

"'Caught the excess'?" he repeated. It was a Sideswipe phrase, deliberately vague as the code-breaker tried to skim over something which a superior officer would probably not be delighted to hear. Generally it was a tactic that worked, if only because superior officers usually had more important things to be bothered with than Sideswipe. Or Minicons, for that matter. Optimus, however, had learned that ignoring either one was a stupid thing to do. Sideswipe caught the glare and gave up.

"I seems that they"-cough, cough-"absorbed the majority of the overload into themselves, sir. Hoist's checked their reserves and they're completely reenergized. Somehow, they converted the generated energy into power they could use themselves, even though they weren't properly linked up to it."

Silence. Then Optimus said, tentatively, "Sideswipe. That's impossible."

"Yessir."

"Sidexwipe, that's…that's… are you implying that those creatures are some sort of…_vampires_?"

He loathed himself for the 'those creatures,' but suddenly his mind was filled with a slowly-evolving lump of horror. Energy drainers were rare on Cybertron, and tended to exist as Autobots or Decepticons who were, through some horrible design flaw, too large to live off the internal energy-converter they had been created with. Most had been driven underground at the start of the war, because, despite their size, they were far too weak to be a serious threat to a trained warrior. Still, people did get so paranoid…

Optimus looked bleakly at the wall. The idea of miniature transformers who could do much the same as the ancient monsters did not fill his spark with the sound of music and song.

"On the other hand," Hoist butted in, eager to change subjects. He did not understand what had happened and that was _embarrassing_ when you were one of the top mechanics in the army. "You seem to be at least partially recharged, Optimus. I've run a scan on your vitals and more than half of them are back to functioning at optimum rate."

Interested, Optimus quickly ran an internal check-up, and was startled to find that, yes, it would appear that Hoist was correct. The energon flowing through his systems was warmer and moving twice as quickly as it had been half an hour ago. His limbs no longer moved with the lead-dead heaviness and his early warning systems were no longer beeping incessantly about imminent deactivation. Hmm. It would seem that the transfer had been, at least, partially successful.

"Curious."

"Yessir."

Optimus looked at the generator, no longer giving off the faintly sinister hum now that the base had been effectively sucked dry of energy. He looked from his own singed shell to where the three yellow Minicons stood, all together. Mirage turned to him and he could have sworn he saw the small transformer give him an optic-flash wink.

"Sideswipe," he murmured, not turning his head, "roughly how much energy did the generator emit when it overloaded?"

Sidewipe hesitated before naming a figure that, if written down, would have required fifteen earthling-sized novels to complete.

"And," said Optimus, not even batting a non-existent eyelid, "roughly how much, would you say, was transferred into my reserves?"

Another hesitation, before, "About three percent, sir."

Sideswipe looked rather worriedly at his leader, who still had neither moved nor lost the look of vague concentration. In hindsight, Sideswipe would compare this look to Megatron's most fiendish cackle or Starscream's most unhinged war cry on a scale of sheer, hysteric-inducing terror, and quietly rate it higher than either. It was comparable only to Red Alert's look of sudden, brilliant inspiration as he decided on a course of action that would, inevitably, result in at least one major part of your shell being drastically reformatted.

"Sideswipe."

"Yessir?"

"Had I…absorbed this excess, what do you think would have happened? In your opinion?"

Sideswipe cast an agonized glance at Hoist, who was studiously studying his tools. Perhaps the mechanic was irritated at th fact that Optimus was asking this question of the youngest Autobot on Earth, rather than the head mechanic of the base. Sideswipe suspected otherwise. The way in which Hoist inspected the inconsequential piece of equipment seemed to hint at a deep unwillingness to be in Sideswipe's shoes right now.

He tried to be tactful.

"Well, sir…you know what happens when you take a high-powered laser and raise it all the way to maximum setting? And then, say, you shot it off at a really small piece of aluminium foil?"

"…Yes."

"Times that by fifty."

"Ah."

"Yessir," mumbled Sideswipe and Hoist in near-perfect unison.

There was a moment of deep, reflective pause as all three pondered this. Optimus, in particular, considered that most famous of phrases, which almost all of his high commandeers had imparted to him at some point, before their untimely deaths:_ Never Underestimate The Minicons. Whatever You Do, Kid, Never Underestimate The Slagging Minicons. Got It? Good. Now Gimmie Some More High Grade._

_They could have let me die,_ he thought, gazing at the scorch marks on his armour. Already beginning to fade as metallic fibres knitted over them, his recovered healing systems getting back to work. _They could have let it kill me. It's nothing to them. They could have taken on all that energy without flinching. And I…I would have been…_

The silence was broken by a decisive click from Blurr's rifle as the sniper checked and reloaded his weapon. Unlike the others possessed by members of the stranded Autobot team, sniper rifles were set to a different frequency entirely. Namely, Blurr himself. The weapon would only run out of energy when he did. Or, perhaps, a few moments afterwards. Blurr was very, very possessive when it came to his guns. Comrades were fine and commanders were necessary and a working shell was always nice but guns, in his opinion, were the business around which the world moved.

He Who Was Committed To His Job slung his second rifle over one shoulder and said, "Well, that's that. Are we going back up to obliterate Sideways and get our team back or what?"

One of the best things about the coolheaded marksman, mused Optimus as he got to his feet and placed the kids on his shoulder, was his pragmatism.

* * *

The lasers weren't a surprise. The clones were.

Jetfire's sluggish thought were wrenched into second gear by the sound of an unnatural screech. Looking up, he was relieved to find that it was only Starscream. Only Starscream, on his feet, one hand clenched and the other gripping his sword. Only Starscream, almost hovering above the ground with the power of sheer fury, screeching innumerable death threats that could have won all sorts of prizes for their originality.

Sort of relieved, anyway.

Bewildered, he checked his reserve banks and was only confused further to discover that his energy levels were still as low as they had been ten minutes ago, before he'd enjoyed his little nap.

_So_, he concluded, _we can assume that nobody's got their energy back yet. Either that, or Wheeljack overpowered Red Alert, the Decepticons have their energy back, and Megatron's showed up and is shooting the slag out of us. If this is the case, we are screwed. If this is not the case, who the hell is my loopy partner yelling his Primus-damned head off at?_

Reawakening his protesting visual processors, Jetfire took in the scene in a glance. And cringed.

Scavenger was up and fighting, his powerful arms swinging out again and again, the body's need for energy blown away by the rock-headed determination that the mercenary was famous for.

Red Alert and Wheeljack were swearing in near-perfect unison as they struggled to continue their work on the transformed Decepticon Communications Officer amongst an intensifying halo of incoming fire. Hot Shot was crouched near them both, providing ineffective backup, whilst the twins spun up and around like deadly comets, Skywarp's high-pitched laughter mingling with his wingmate's growling baritone. From what Jetfire could hear, the screeched repartee was of the typical Decepticon array of taunts and overzealous threats.

Cyclonus could barely move, that much was obvious, but his clumsy, erratic strikes came in lightning-fast succession, leaving Jetfire wandering if he was actually looking at a transformer at all, and not some snarling, whirling Earth-creature with a craving for steel-flesh.

It was then that a vital piece of information clicked into the puzzle that was forming in Jetfire's mind. It was such a strange, unnatural state of affairs that he had to take a second, closer look to ensure that the combination of exhaustion and near-death-experiences hadn't dislodged his mainframe.

There was, quite clearly, an awful lot of fighting going on. But the thing _was _that neither of the factions seemed at all interested in slagging each other. In fact, all they were currently focused on was…

It was then that Jetfire noticed the last factor that had, until now, escaped his notice. Namely, the seven purple mechs who stood in a ring around them all, arms raised. Temporarily frozen, a touch of memory graced the back of Jetfire's mind.

He had never encountered Sideways in battle, never even heard the traitor's voice, but he did remember the image on the screen that the kids had shown him. He did remember the small mech on screen whom they'd all told him about at one point or another. Sideways. Sideways the traitor.

At which point rational thought made a hasty re-entrance and he rolled to his feet and lunged at the nearest clone with a demented cry on his lips that would have impressed Starscream.

Had Starscream not done exactly the same thing at exactly the same moment.

On the other aide of the plateau, Thundercracker laughed happily. He was currently busy with a clone who had one arm and half a face missing, but he was having great fun. It had been too long since really weird things like this had happened, thought the blue seeker wistfully, and jerked to avoid losing his head. On the planet where he and Skywarp had been stationed for the past year, the most interesting thing that had ever happened was…well, them, actually. And watching the paint dry on the base walls. That had been sort of fun.

"Hey, TC!"

The happily deranged whoop interrupted his nostalgia, and he threw his wingmate a grin as he finished off with the clone by means of a sharp twist of his hand and a swipe of his elbow that removed what remained of the purple being's face. The thing sputtered and fell to the ground at Thundercracker's feet. Giving a nod of satisfaction at a job well done, the Decepticon turned to where Skywarp stood, and gaped.

"Hey, 'Warp?" he yelled in puzzlement.

"Yeah?"

"Where the scrap did you get that?"

"Oh, this?"

Skywarp grinned as he held up the long, gleaming scythe. Its metallic handle was clenched possessively in the purple Decepticon's pitch-black hands as he nonchalantly fended off a second clone. It was a lovely thing, thought Thundercracker as he eyed it approvingly.

"Got it outa my wing," stated Skywarp, causing his twin some confusion as he ducked to avoid a shot. Wing weapons were a talent which only Starscream had ever possessed, and were, in his ex-wingmate's opinion "creepy." Sky warp had never been bothered by it much, but Thundercracker had always firmly believed that wings should stay where they were put. Yanking pieces of yourself out was bad enough without using said pieces to kill people. _Especially_ when said objects were your own precious wings, decided Thundercracker, giving a shallow shudder.

Moving his optics along the black and purple mech's shoulder, Thundercracker saw that, indeed, the left wing was cut short. The seeker's ice-blue optics narrowed somewhat, unsure of whether he liked this new feature of the upgrade.

Still, it _was_ a shiny scythe. And Thundercracker had always rather liked shiny things. Especially where his wingmate was concerned.

"Niiiiice," he commented as his spark-twin returned to ruthlessly laying into the nearest target he could reach.

Hot Shot ducked and tackled a nearby clone to the ground. Giving a fierce growl, he drew back one fist that felt like a large, malformed clump of lead, and brought it down as hard as he could. Exhaustion made his vision blur, so the smaller being shrieked as only the side of its head was slammed into. Pulling back again, Hot Shot tried again with his left arm, only to be thrown off and sent rolling. The freed clone leapt nimbly to its feet and raised a laser with a calm efficiency that would have scared the life out of a fully-charged, fully-armed Megatron.

Dizzying arrays of black and purple swum before Hot Shot's optics, but relentless survival instinct made him look up.

And down the barrel of a long, arm-mounted gun. A long, humming, glowing arm-mounted gun.

_Ah, krell._

Despite himself, Wheeljack was impressed. In his short but eventful career as a low-ranking Autobot, he had encountered quite a few head medics and science officers. Not so many in the Decepticon army, where most repairs were done by the snazzy, high-tech CR chambers, but still one or two on stations too boring or unimportant to require the use of such up-to-date equipment. As such, he had come to quietly pride himself on knowing pretty much every combination of swear words under this or any other sun. However, sitting next to Red Alert as the ambulance tried to shield his work whilst still scrabbling for tools and yelling at Hot Shot for backup, Wheeljack was impressed. Stunned, but impressed.

A purple bolt connected with his side, eliciting a gasp of pain as he dropped the cable he had been trying to reconnect. Fire swept up his torso, leaving him wondering who in Primus's name these things were, that could inject so much energy into one small blast. His mind clouded with a stinging red fog.

Anger swept regally in, but so did something else. The combination of dizziness and depletion assaulted his logic circuits, sending his sensory receptors into swirling confusion. A huge, endless pit welled up within Wheeljack's mainframe and he suddenly felt like a man with half a ton of gold strapped to his back on a the middle of a frozen lake, hearing the first, awful little cracking noise.

A stone-cold shiver ran down his legs and he gave a soundless little moan.

He squeezed his optics off, trying but failing not to notice the fact that the snow around him not longer looked white anymore, and the fact that his audio receptors were full of crackling and light and smoke and screams. The place where the shot had connected no longer felt just singed and dented. It felt as though on fire.

_**Flames.**_

Megatron's voice and military protocol both screamed at him to_ get back on his feet_, he was a _Decepticon_ for Primus's sake!

_**Flames.**_

The rest screamed back, wordlessly as he raked his fingers down either side of his head. A desperate need rose up, a maddened desire to rip out his own mainframe and smash it and break it and crush it on the ground, anything, anything to make the voices just **stop.**

_**Flames.**_

_Oh, Primus, they're _everywhere!

It had been two years since he'd blacked out in the midst of battle. The sensation was just as bad as he remembered it. As Scavenger roared and ploughed into another clone, regardless of incoming fire, as the seekers leapt from foe to foe, Wheeljack clutched his head. He sank to his knees like a man preparing for execution and the space around him dissolved into fire.

A sound penetrated his swimming mainframe like an icicle.

* * *

Cyclonus gasped as he flung himself behind a frozen mesa. Particles of ice flew upwards as he collapsed to the ground, having narrowly avoided a shot from one of those slagging scarp-iron clones.

_Well, ain't this just fine._

Growling as he touched a singed part of his helmet, the helicopter poked his head out from behind the rock and risked a glance at the scene. Despite his apparently low spirits, the small Decepticon was enjoying himself immensely. No dealing with comrades going insane, no maintaining of stupid truces. Just moving from point A (one side of the battlefield) to point B (the other side of the battlefield), and making everyone in between those two points as miserable as was possible. Simple. Cyclonus liked it when things were simple.

However, he did rather hope, as he gazed out at the scene, that this particular battle would draw to a close rather soon. If not, pointed out the inner voice as it checked his reserves, he was probably going to die.

There were only three clones remaining, and two of those were being righteously trashed, to his voyeuristic delight. The giggle, however, was cut short as his roaming optics snagged upon a dark mound, crouched over on the snow.

_Aw, 'Jack, not now!,_ thought the deranged Decepticon in dismay, a sinking feeling appearing somewhere in his midsection.

The black and white transformer was rocking back and forth, reassuring Cyclonus that at least he wasn't dead. He shook his head and thought crossly, _Once a 'Bot, always a 'Bot. Can't even handle a little intensive combat, the moron. And they say I'm nuts._

Still, he kept his anxious optics trained upon Wheeljack. Nut he may well have been but Cyclonus was a nut too and nuts don't generally make a lot of friends. His cork screw mind raced, trying to think of a plan that stood a chance of working. Unfortunately, nuts are not known for their ability to scheme.

His attention was distracted somewhat by a ringing cry. Irritated at being disturbed, Cyclonus shifted his line of vision to where the red and yellow Autobot cowered before an outstretched arm. An outstretched arm, attached to a mildly-damaged but otherwise quite healthy clone of Sideways.

_Never did like that freak_, thought Cyclonus bleakly, torn between delight at Hot Shot's demise and disappointment the fact that someone else was doing it. Fear at the prospect of Wheeljack's apparent nervous breakdown was also a factor, but a minor one.

Losing interest, he transferred his optics once more to the dark shape of his lab-partner. Who seemed to have gone strangely still, all of a sudden. Cyclonus cranked up the energy expenditure on his optic sensors slightly, worriedly wondering if the only person in the universe who found his jokes funny was dead. He gave a sigh of relief upon seeing Wheeljack's head suddenly snap up. Next the dark Decepticon twisted his head to where Hot Shot hunkered on his knees like a prisoner before the block.

Cyclonus would later admit to himself that yes, he was impressed at how quickly Wheeljack had moved. The flicker from semi-paralysis to an all-out charge had occurred at speeds even the berserker copter-bot would have been proud of. And yes, it had been kind of cool, the way the black Decepticon had leapt up and tackled the clone to the ground, yelling like a banshee all the way. And the way Wheeljack had pinned it down and beaten the slag out of it until it's face was a sparking ruin, that had been pretty good, too.

But what had been the _**best**_ part in his opinion was how, when Hot Shot had gone over to the dark Decepticon and offered out his hand, Wheeljack had stared at it, before accepting the gesture and allowing Hot Shot to help him to his feet.

And then punched the yellow Autobot so hard that he'd fallen back onto the snow.

For now, however, Cyclonus merely cast a cursory gaze over the finishing battle, which largely consisted of Skywarp chasing the second last clone around with an axe he'd found somewhere, laughing maniacally the whole while. The Air Defence Team had the final one on the ground and were taking turns at kicking the thing to pieces. Jetfire was grumbling, picking himself off the snow and moving to where Red Alert had shielded Mayfly and himself behind an overhang. Scavenger made some passing reference to the ninety degree dent Starscream's sword had sustained, and was rapidly drawn into a loud, high-pitched exchange of death threats and insults.

Cyclonus sighed and slumped back against the rock

_Weird day_, he thought, shaking his head free of snow.

* * *

High above both leaders, space was screaming.

Sideways sped around the fragments of a satellite, wondering if there was anything left of it to destroy. With disappointment, he realized that this was not the case, and satisfied himself by releasing another shriek and plunging through the blistering heat of the ozone layer in a hissing ball of electric rage. Pulling up just before he breached the stratosphere, he shot back again into the cool black of space. Energy sizzling around him as he fell back into drained weightlessness, allowing himself to float aimlessly upon the lack of restricting gravity, he damned every one of them to the pit.

Gazing at the distant halo of stars, he knew with a listless certainty that none of them would be _**him**_. Sideways could always tell where _**he **_was, even if _**he**_ wasn't within the range of fifty two solar systems. Morbidly, he wondered if any of this was really worth it. His grand plan was developing holes all over the place and _**he**_ would _not _be pleased. And Sideways so wanted to please him, yes, always.

Shaking himself with a sigh, he tried to focus on the matter at hand. Thinking back now, he remembered with perfect clarity the smug expression of Megatron, the smirk on Hoist's face as he'd taken out one of Sideways's lovely clones. They'd taken ages to construct, drained him beyond exhaustion and now they were gone! Gone! Decimated by those wretched Autobots and that…that…

He shrieked again and scattered, his molecules dispersing themselves over half a mile.

As he reformed, he forced himself into calm. As some of his typical icy calculation returned, he stole a glance at the ruins of the satellite. Not HIS satellite, of course. Sideways was many things, most of them unpleasant, but insane was not one of them. HIS satellite was several miles away, where it couldn't be harmed by the strength of his outburst. This useless thing was just some pathetic human construction he had located and fallen upon whilst still rabid with fury. Looking at it now, all twisted metal and ripped wires, he felt slightly better.

After all, they didn't know where his _marvellous_ machine was, now did they? As long as he held that, he held ultimate power.

Yes. Of course.

He indulged himself in a laugh, but somehow, it didn't feel quite as confident as the last seven had done.


	16. Cheap Magic

Cheap Magic

It hurt to cackle but Megatron did it anyway.

Sometimes, he had long ago realized, you just had to. For one thing, it was therapeutic. For another, it unnerved people, and this was generally a good thing. And, of course, there was the marvellous amount of exercise it offered one's vocal processor to be considered. Sometimes you just had to haul back and let it rip.

However, at this moment, Megatron was employing the usage of one of his favourite sounds simply because he felt it right to do so. You learned a great deal about timing when you were the leader of a large, violent, rebellious army. For one thing, you learnt when it was a good time to unnerve people.

Thrust was unnerved.

Megatron noted this with a certain amount of smug satisfaction, and returned to the monitor screen before him. The electric glow reflected on his smoke-coloured faceplate pleased him. As did the glow of the nine other minor modules he had successfully reactivated.

It wasn't much. But Megatron could do a lot with 'not much'. In days gone by, he had constructed a revolution and an army out of 'not much'. This same 'not much' had gone on to become one of the most dreaded, vicious and often outright insane forces in the galaxy, and now owned a decent portion of it. Largely stolen, but that was inconsequential. Megatron had learnt never to underestimate the power of 'not much'.

It was a start.

It had been undeniably painful, completing the transfer with a wound in his back that had not yet ceased spitting out mech fluid. Thrust had warned against draining himself entirely into the ship, pointing out that disposing of Sideways had already cost them enough. He had reserved enough power to prevent himself from collapsing in front of his men, a horror which he did not even want to contemplate. Looking around now, seeing his base recharged, he decided that it had been worth it.

In the corner, Demolisher was tending to Black Out and Drillbit. Attempting the transfer whilst linked up to the power of the Requiem Minicons would have been a trifle more risky than Megatron liked to imagine. At the very least, such a move would have almost certainly overcharged the base, blowing every circuit and computer module before moving onto _him_. Skyblast's team, therefore, remained watching from the sidelines. For all Megatron knew, they could have been sniggering quietly.

Inferno refused Demolisher's attempts to examine him, reinforcing Megatron's irrational dislike of the small, soft-spoken transformer. He behaved a bit too much like Thrust for Megatron's taste, and one Thrust was more than enough. Leader-One openly despised him, for some reason which he had never explained to Megatron. The warlord frowned before returning his attention to the screen.

"Megatron," reported Thrust in greasy triumph, "I have rerouted the energy from the computers into the warp gate. It should be ready in fifteen minutes."

Megatron smiled frostily. "Excellent, Thrust. And how long before the com-links are active again, hmm?"

"Seven minutes at the _most,_ my lord."

"Excellent." Megatron permitted himself a self-satisfied smile that sent out another little trickle of pain, and reached out to grasp the nearest support structure. Concentrating mightily, he managed to will the exhausted black spots away, drowning them with the memory of their latest success. Brushing away the haze with the thought of their imminent victory. True, a minor victory, but size was of no importance, as a defeated foe had once mumbled to Megatron. A few seconds before Megatron had used his head to make an escape route. His optics dimmer than was strictly healthy, a sickly, heartfelt smirk now appeared.

"Thrust," he rasped. "Reopen the communication line to the Autobots' base."

* * *

_Damage report,_ thought Red Alert. Had there ever been four more dreaded syllables?

"Damage report, Red Alert."

"Yes, Jetfire."

Shooting the Autobot Second-In-Command's back a poisonous glare, Red Alert returned to the wire network before him. It was, he had to admit with a reasonable measure of pride, not too damn shabby. Considering that he'd had only an untrustworthy assistant and some makeshift tools to work with, the fact that Mayfly was rigged up and almost prepared to start sending out a distress signal, it was really rather impressive. Not to say anything about the fact that he'd succeeded in completing the last phase during an enemy attack.

He was forcing himself not to think about the clones or Sideways right this very minute. Desperation concentrates the mind wonderfully, but any attempt to deal with more than one problem at a time left his mainframe feeling like a plate of scrambled egg.

"Everyone accounted for?" Red Alert called. A haphazard collection of mutters and groans came in response, and he was further pleased to note that nobody appeared to have sustained any serious injuries. Excellent, all the kids had been rounded up.

A metallic beep came from the right, startling him until he realized that Mayfly was attempting to get his attention. Noticing the flickering green screen, he leaned over and stared at the Cybertronian translation.

_AUTOBOT: HAVE YOU FINISHED WIRING THE COMMUNICATION LINKS YET?_

He blinked, experiencing a flicker of dislike for the silent femme. Had the term been 'Autotrash' or 'Autoscum', he somehow would have felt better. Insults were typical Decepticon behaviour but being referred to merely by faction by this chilly creature made him feel somewhat…uncomfortable. Even Cyclonus seemed to respect him as an enemy. There was no respect here, not even the angry, heartfelt contempt of a successful Megatron. What there _was_ was apathy. He was put uneasily in mind of Wheeljack.

Besides, the fact that even Minicons could communicate more easily than this also made him uneasy, so he swiftly gave a reply, pushing such thoughts away.

"I'm almost done," he replied curtly, half-listening to the sound of Wheeljack and Jetfire rounding up their respective teams. "In fact", he added with a slightly greater margin of enthusiasm, "unless I have been so far vastly mistaken, we're just about done. All that's left now is to…"

If Mayfly understood the rest of the sentence as it dissolved into what Cyclonus would have called 'science-speak', she gave no indication. The reply, when it appeared, was short and just as chilly as the last.

_GOOD. CONTINUE QUICKLY. MY RESERVES ARE NOT INFINITE._

Waiting just a second to ensure total control of his temper, Red Alert picked up his last remaining tool and set to work.

It was five more minutes before Jetfire heard the words that sent a shudder of profound delight down his back.

"We're done."

The large white Autobot turned to the medic, hardly daring to hope. He was met with the sight of Red Alert sitting smugly beside a green terminal that appeared to be rigged up to eight com-links and roughly seven random pieces of metal. The sight was a great deal more inspiring than it had any right to be, in his opinion.

* * *

It wasn't that Optimus really tried to look noble, reflected Sparkplug. It came naturally to him, the way that lifting one's tail in times of danger came naturally to a skunk. Somehow, whenever Good was Triumphing Over Evil, his polished armour seemed to gain an extra special gleam that put Swindle's to shame. Yet another of the ways in which Jetfire was unable to compete with Optimus. The red Autobot insignia on his shoulder seemed to positively _sparkle._ And, yet again, he seemed to give off the illusion of height. Optimus was not, in fact, taller than most Autobots in the army. However, no one but Sparkplug seemed to ever notice this. Not even Decepticons seemed to notice it. It was, in the yellow Minicon's opinion, odd.

_Bloody __**bizarre**__, more like_, he thought, moodily regarding his commander.

And it wasn't as though it was even such a bad thing, really. Certainly it made the men practically melt with admiration. It probably built up his confidence. And Decepticons generally found it as irritating as hell.

Sparkplug liked his power-link partner. And yet, there was a reason the syllable '_cons_' had been slapped onto the end of the tiny robots' specification. Despite the collection of all his happy thoughts, Sparkplug looked up at the proud and victorious Autobot commander with just a smidgen of…weariness.

"Alright, men," declared Optimus, the steely gleam of Justice visible behind his mask. "Let's bring them home!"

A rather needless announcement, Sparkplug couldn't help but feel, considering that Sideswipe was already hard at work reprogramming the recharged warp room- recharge drawn from Prime's own systems, of course.

_Next he'll say something like 'go team'_, thought Sparkplug to himself, quickly biting back a snigger at a mental image of Optimus waving what those human's called 'pom-poms' high above his head, calling out inane catch phrases to inspire his troops.

On the floor, Billy tried not to look at Fred. Instead, he kept the expression of wide-eyed amazement fixed firmly upon Blurr's right foot, always a useful distraction. Because he really, really didn't want to notice the quietly reproachful look that he just knew would be waiting for him if he so much as said 'hi'.

"Hey, Billy?"

The young human winced at the kicked-dog sound of Fred's voice.

"Hey, Fred-o!" he proclaimed in a falsely jovial voice, turning to face the other boy. The too-wide smile flickered just a little as he observed the plain hurt nervousness in the other's eyes. Seeing it, however, Fred offered a small smile of his own. The seconds stretched, allowing an uncomfortable silence to creep in.

"So, d'ya hear what happened?" said Fred after a while. Billy nodded.

"Yeah, Rad told me," he replied, completely failing to notice the mild scowl that crossed Fred's face at this. "Said you guys had some trouble with Sideways or something."

Stories of near-death experience and intrigue had become so commonplace in Billy's life that he often either ignored them or dealt with hem by mentally shutting down a part pf his brain still susceptible to wonder. Red Alert would have understood.

Fred gave a short, tight nod in reply. "Yeah. He made some…clones or something. It was weird. They started shooting at us."

The unspoken _Where were you?_ caused Billy's intended reply to dwindle away to an "Oh." After a short pause, he said the only thing that could come to his mind.

"So, are you okay?"

Fred shifted from side to side, considering telling Billy about the earthquake, the lasers and the nineteen times he had actually feared for his life. He eventually settled for saying, "Yeah."

At this, Billy's face broke open into a sincerely relieved grin and he chuckled, tension seeping away.

"Cool."

His laughter faded slightly as he gave Fred a half-glance, obviously still not entirely sure of his grounding. The look was plain and Fred had seen it many times before. _We are cool, right, man? Right?_

Fred regarded Billy for just a moment, thinking about it. And realized that, in truth, there was nothing to think about. All anger and resentment had blown away at seeing his friend's discomfort, and now all he wished to do was reassure both of them that yeah, man, it was cool, it was okay. The world was normal again and everything was fine.

"So, you wanna watch?" asked Billy lamely, indicating Optimus as he moved to reactivate a communications module.

"Okay," replied Fred, amazed to find that the cheerfulness in his voice was real.

"Cool."

And Billy would always be weaker, thought the large human child as they both moved to where the Autobots were standing. Just like he would never be able to do spelling and all that other stuff. Didn't matter.

Grinning, both boys arrived just in time to watch the communications terminal crackle to life.

* * *

"_We're devils and black sheep, we're really bad eggs…"_

The drifting soprano of Skywarp's voice was the only sound apparent, other than the quiet 'hmm' noises coming from Red Alert. The medic was crouched beside Mayfly, trying to locate the frequencies which would allow either base to radio them. Two minutes ago, he had sent off four consecutive distress signals, two to either faction's respective leader. So far, no word had been received.

Jetfire examined his snowy hands in boredom, and discovered that frost was already clinging to them. Disturbed, he looked away, trying to ignore the automatic system check on his low reserves.

And they waited.

Cyclonus and Hot Shot had surrendered to recharge, most of the other slumped on the ground in anticipation of either death or salvation. The Minicons reclined upon the reasonably prone forms of their partners, Swindle trudging over to snow to push Jetstorm off Starscream's shoulder and take his place. This resulted in the outbreak of a minor scuffle which Jetfire regarded with amused interest.

The only ones remaining fully alert were Jetfire, Starscream, Wheeljack and Red Alert. Scavenger was dozing lightly in the middle of the circle, but Jetfire had seen Scavenger go from total stasis lock to a firing stance in under two microcycles. He probably didn't count, the shuttle decided.

"_Drink up, me hearties, yo ho_… Hey!"

Skywarp's dull recital was cut off as Thundercracker tossed a lump of snow at him, mumbling something about shutting up "before I deck your halls".

The Antarctic descended into brooding silence once more. High above, clouds spun. Jetfire boredly used one finger to make lines in the snow.

Every mech alive jumped approximately nineteen metres into the air at Red Alert's shout of, "EUREKA!"

Starscream, who had been checking the edge of his sword for damage or blunting, yelled obscenely as he cut deep into his finger, drawing up rosy beads of black fluid.

"What the-…?!"

"_We've got a signal!"_

In a burst of speed, Jetfire found himself crouched beside Mayfly, listening to the crackling words spill from the computer module.

"Autobots Jetfire, Hot Shot, Scavenger, Red Alert, Starscream, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? Autobots Jetfire, Hot Shot…"

Asked five minutes ago, Jetfire would have not been aware that he had the energy in his auxiliary power cells to jumped straight up and punch the air five times in a row, but it is a marvel what a person can pull off when they have the motivation. Dimly, he herd Cyclonus crow, "Yeah, go ambulance-boy!" or something similar that would have landed him in quite a lot of trouble before legions of truly die-hard Decepticons, but he was too preoccupied with his own celebrations to take much notice. It did strike him as just a trifle strange, though, considering that the voice in the static was patently not Megatron's.

And then he realized the dynamics of the situation, and all other celebrations ground to a screeching halt.

Oh...

_But what was the alternative?,_ he wondered, determinedly not turning to look at Wheeljack._ Leaving them here? Here? _

Maybe Megatron would get the warp gate fixed before the cold could freeze the mech fluid in their fuel lines. Maybe the power suppressor, whatever it was, wherever it was, would malfunction. At full power, a mech could survive for days in conditions far colder and harsher that this.

Of course, if the thing didn't malfunction, at almost nil power left after the climb, a mech could survive for maybe an hour at best.

There were times when Jetfire really, really hated being an Autobot.

Red Alert noticed how quiet his commander had suddenly become, but shrugged it off. Keen to make contact, his hand moved to the control panel. And was swiftly intercepted by Jetfire's.

"No."

The word was short and sharp and yet it sounded as though it had come from a long way round, from some distant land where an awful lot of thought was going on. Red Alert stared at the Autobot commander in bewilderment, his hand falling away.

"What?! Why?"

It was a rare thing to hear Red Alert make use of an exclamation point. For his part, Jetfire stood still, apparently unaware of the thirteen or so stares he was receiving. Stares that succeeded in conveying a wide variety of reactions, not the least of which was total incomprehension.

Starscream was, surprisingly or not, the first to latch on. His optics brightened in a manner startlingly reminiscent of the moment Jetfire had first suggested a truce. His lips fell apart and briefly he wondered if sky-madness had, in fact, claimed him after all.

"You cannot be serious," he murmured, optics pinned to the larger commander like searchlights.

Jetfire nodded and did so again, as if trying to reassure the inner voice that throwing itself off a balcony would not help. They waited. Victims of horrible disasters will often do the same thing; stop and stare and wait to see whatever the rumbling volcano will do next. Not because of bravery or even real curiosity, but because some things just have to be seen to believed. Wheeljack, Starscream and Red Alert were watching Jetfire with expressions very close to those worn by tourists just before being crushed by a meteor. Not fear, certainly not curiosity but more of a mute, numb surprise.

"No," Jetfire said again, his aching vocal monitor sounding a little more powerful. "Leave it, Red. We're waiting."

He then turned to look at Starscream, his optics begging forgiveness whilst his lips formed the words.

"Just five minutes, 'kay?"

"Jetfire, WHAT are you talking about?" groaned Red Alert in despair.

_I'm going to get court marshalled for this. _

"We're waiting until Megatron contacts them," he said shortly, indicating the Decepticons with a jerk of his head.

The silence that followed was broken only by Starscream uttering a small whimper and burying his face in his hand.

"…What?" said Cyclonus suspiciously, raising his optics from their inspection of a laser burn on his leg. Jetfire turned to him- and Wheeljack, who stood nearby- and spoke.

"The terms of our agreement were that we were to remain in truce until such time as both our factions are safely reunited with our respective comrades. These terms haven't altered. Therefore, my team is going to wait a further five minutes to ensure that Megatron is able to contact you. We won't be able to spare any more time. We're all down to half an hour at most, and we still need to find out what's been causing this problem."

His voice seemed to come from many miles away and it didn't sound like his. Red Alert could have told him how much he sounded like Optimus, perhaps in a moment of stress. Starscream could have told him how much he sounded like Megatron on a good day. He was aware of his arm, damaged in the crash and suddenly starting to hurt quite horribly. He hadn't noticed it until now, much as he hadn't noticed the other damage his shell had sustained. He'd been hugely aware of how much damage Red Alert, Starscream and the others had sustained (perhaps Starscream just a _little _bit more than the others?), but the large areas of scraped-off paint and dented armour on his shell had almost entirely escaped his notice. Now they all made themselves heard at once, as he felt yet again the stares of all and sundry staple themselves onto him.

It was, supposed the suicidal inner voice grudgingly, it was worth it just to see the look that crawled slapped itself onto Wheeljack's golden faceplate. He hadn't even thought the cold Decepticon was capable of goggling.

Cyclonus was the first one to speak. The words came out as a wailing tumble that both Demolisher and Impact would have been horribly ashamed of.

"But…but…that's…you're…you're an Autobot! You've _got_ to leave us here! Everyone _knows_ that! Even_** I**_ know that! I mean…why are you trying to pretend, huh? Huh? You've _got_ to leave us here! That means you _**win**_! That's what you do!"

"No, that's what _you_ do."

The calm, rock solid conviction in Jetfire's correction had even Cyclonus fall into indignant silence. For a moment, no one spoke. The twins had crept over to look at Red Alert's handiwork. Distantly, the Autobot commander wondered if either one had the attention pan of say, the average housefly. Hot Shot was looking at the ground, but every so often he would glance up at his old brother with a strange expression. Scavenger was regarding Jetfire with vague interest.

"Red, get to work on contacting the Decepticon base."

Hot Shot didn't even argue this time.

As Jetfire turned away from the stares, moving to sit back under the mesa, Scavenger murmured quietly to him, staring at an indeterminate point on the horizon. Soft though the words were, they were very clear.

"You sure about this, Jetfire?"

He hesitated, then nodded. Without saying a word, the shuttle moved off.

With a great sigh, Red Alert turned back to Mayfly.

Like a veil of shock, silence descended.

Hot Shot and Scavenger looked towards their commanding officer and entertained new theories as to why, exactly, Prime had made Jetfire his second. Starscream looked at his new-chosen wingmate and thought a lot of things. Thundercracker looked reflective for a bit, before leaning slightly closer to Starscream. Out the corner of his mouth, dropping his vocals to a murmur, he said, "Y'know Screamer… whatever Skywarp says, you probably could have done worse. And 'Warp's right, just so you know. He _does_ have nice wings."

Satisfied that his piece had been stated, the blue seeker leaned been and moved to where Skywarp sat in the snow, trying to sulk. Starscream stared after his trinemate, before transferring his gaze to Jetfire, crouching alone with his arms around his legs.

_How is it that, no matter what I do, I end up surrounded by, associated with and living alongside maniacs?_

Wheeljack and Cyclonus spent most of the time staring at Jetfire with expressions that mingled real admiration with simple, stunned marvelling at the fact that anyone, Autobot or Decepticon, could be so incredibly stupid. Occasionally, they exchanged glances.

Both Decepticons had encountered the shuttle in battle before. Both had previously agreed that he was a typical Autobot, full of Good and Justice and A Real Wimp When It Came Right Down To It. However, both had also developed the mark of a true villain; the ability to know a hero when you saw one. And both had formed their own, private opinion on heroes.

Decepticons had dealt with heroes before. Heroes, generally to their misfortune, had been dealt with by Decepticons before. But this, they both knew and sensed, was something else entirely. It was a difficult choice between saluting the strange white shuttle and laughing hysterically.

In retrospect, Red Alert would thank Primus for the fact that all the weaponry was out of commission. Now, he merely reopened his subspace pocket and retrieved Sharp, Hooked Tool Number Forty-Five.

As it turned out, this wasn't necessary. After only three minutes of strangely subdued silence, Cyclonus leapt up with a shout that turned all heads in his direction. It transpired that the warp gate to the Decepticon base had reopened.

* * *

Impact and Thrust understood almost immediately. Tidal Wave, surprisingly, got the concept fairly well after it had been explained to him in Thrust's calm, patient voice at least twice. The Minicons had guessed the plan without need of any explanation. Demolisher, however, was having a little trouble.

Fortunately, Megatron was feeling grimly well-humoured. With only a passing flicker of despair, he launched into his third explanation of The Plan to his most loyal soldier.

"Right. Try and concentrate this time. We are going to first reactivate the warp gate. Understand?"

The response came in the form of an alert, attentive nod.

"Second. We are going to retrieve our errant comrades. Yes?"

He considered adding "and deal out long-due punishment," but decided against. That could wait. Seeing another eager nod, he continued.

"Third. Are you paying attention? Good. We are then going to contact Prime and his little rabble of Autobots and alert them to the situation."

The situation had been altered drastically in the last ten minutes, largely due to Impact, much to Demolisher's unpleased amazement. The silver fire-engine had been ordered to set to work immediately on the reactivated computer's. Megatron, sure in his assumption that, somehow, the virus had gotten his hands on a piece of well-concealed Decepticon technology, had made both Thrust and Impact run a sector scan for the area surrounding Earth. Not easy, considering that the ship was damaged, it's scan fields already weak and in need of repair. Megatron made a mental note to set Wheeljack to he task when he was back.

Megatron knew enough about the development of recent Decepticon technology to form a reasonably accurate idea of where and how this device would be operating. It's orbit would need to be close, and chances were good that, for the initial drain, it would have been positioned as close to the moon as possible, so as to wreck equal havoc with both factions.

These were rough estimates to work with. Therefore, it had been pure luck when, thirteen minutes into the task, Thrust had calmly, oh-so-smugly informed Megatron of the existence of a large, strangely shaped form of debris, hanging outside the planet's atmosphere. Upon first glance, the thing could have been mistaken for one of those Earthling satellites, had not the tactician's sharp optics picked up certain discrepancies in the hefty, silver-clad design.

The slashed faction symbols on either side, he would have had to admit, were a clue.

"Fourth." He watched Demolisher's expression carefully, hoping that the keen attentiveness was not a substitute for total incomprehension. "Once Optimus Prime is told about the existence of this…loathsome device, he will immediately waste his own energy sending out men to destroy it."

_One of whom will probably be Starscream..._

This thought quickly squashed itself.

"Whereas we, having first taken recharged our own computers, have nothing more to do other than send the Autobot fools the coordinates."

And _now _the confusion was starting to show, seeping into the short Decepticon's face like chocolate milk into a sponge. Megatron shut off his optics, and firmly resolved to continue regardless.

"But…"

"And," he went on relentlessly, "having _donated _energy _to_ our base, you will note, the external shields are currently running at 85 capacity. We are, therefore, well protected, should Sideways attempt another attack. I'm quite sure that the Autobots will have taken power from their own base to recharge themselves, leaving them with a ship nowhere near as ready to leave this planet as we are."

"And, uh…how do you…know that, sir?"

Megatron looked back at his lieutenant and thought back over the four million years he had waged war against Optimus Prime, four million years spent studying the enemy, four million years spent adapting to his enemy's thought processes.

"I know," he replied grimly. Demolisher caught the look on his leader's face and asked no further questions.

Instead, he turned to the nearest control panel and reactivated the warp gate.

* * *

_Parting is such sweet sorrow…_

Pondering this phrase now, it occurred to Starscream that Megatron would love it.

He had had rather a nasty shock upon hearing the tyrant's voice crackle over the barely-active com-links, demanding that all Decepticons return to base immediately, right now,_ right this minute, are you __**listening, Cyclonus?**__ Good._ So had Cyclonus, come to that.

"So," said Hot Shot, pretending to address no one in particular. Once again adding proof to Scavenger's suspicions about the boy's incessant habit of comfort-talking.

Decepticons and Autobots were rounding themselves up, gradually forming into two separate groups once more. Mayfly transformed, removing the delicate connections with a few careless tugs. Scavenger was brushing the last of the snow from his tread-tire arms. Skywarp was attempting the awkward task of replacing his newfound weapon-easier said than done, as the thing required roughly seven more folds than Starscream's did to fit. And Jetfire was standing in what Starscream had come to think of as his 'Red Alert pose'; shoulders hunched, trying not to slouch with exhaustion and optics dull as his mind fixed on the wonderful proximity of _home_.

"This is so stupid," muttered Skywarp as he achieved stocking his wing back in at a right angle.

"Aw, c'mon, 'Warp, it can't be that hard," chuckled Thundercracker as he moved to assist his wingmate. "I mean, Screamer does it all the time, right? How hard can it be?"

Starscream gave a snort primarily out of habit, pretending not to notice as his taller twin threw him a crooked grin.

"So," said Hot Shot again. He said it quietly this time. Mainly because the yellow Autobot had found himself looking into the optics of his long-ago brother.

"So," said Wheeljack.

There was no malice in his tone, but neither was there anything else. Drained of emotion, dragged through seven types of hell in the space of four hours and at the end of the day all it amounted to was a "So" and a slightly questioning tone. Hot Shot was dimly reminded of one time in the Academy, when they'd both been called before the Masters for redecorating the campus in green after ingesting a vast quantity of heavy energon. Upon confessing what he had done, Wheeljack had stared back at the First Master and said, "So." Not, Hot Shot clearly remembered thinking, out of insolence or confusion. Simply out of a desire to know what was going to happen next.

Hot Shot considered a lot of things he could say and knew that every one of them would be utterly wrong in the face of that stare. In the end, he settled for an awkward half-shrug.

"Be seein' ya, I guess."

A blanket of cold relief came over him as he watched Wheeljack imitate the shrug perfectly and reply, "I guess." The cold was tempered somewhat by the half-smile the Decepticon threw him. Not quite apologetic but probably not as cruel as he was beginning to suspect he deserved. He returned it with some nervousness, then watched as Wheeljack nodded briskly and strode off to attend to his team.

That would have to do. For now, he decided with a sigh, that would have to do.

"Be scrapping ya, Auto-dorks!" cackled Cyclonus, for once dolorously happy to be returning to base. The light in Red Alert's visor rolled round to the top of his head.

Jetfire looked into Wheeljack's optics as the teams prepared to warp. Had he seen a flicker of fellow-feeling there? Was his imagination running away with him? Was he simply projecting things that he wanted- needed- to see, needed to believe, out of nothing more than desperation for just a spot of hope in the madness surrounding him?

Analyzing his own feelings and looking deep into his spark, Jetfire was relieved to find that he didn't give a scrap. He offered the other a reasonably convivial nod and was surprised to see it returned, though with slightly more terseness on the dark transformer's part.

"Autobots, transform and roll out!"

This jovial call earned him a few confused looks, mainly due to the fact that no one was yet capable of transforming. He didn't care about that, either.

Just before the gates were activated, Starscream found himself staring idly into the white clouds spread wide across the beautiful, frozen wasteland. A brief burst of sunlight spun through and for an instant the seeker could have sworn he caught himself looking up at a glimpse of silver and red and sun-white…

…and a smirk.

He blinked.

It was gone. The seeker stared hard but detected nothing beyond a wisp of cloud and a hint of pale-blue sky in the background.

_Now, I could question my own sanity,_ mused Starscream in narrow-opticed thought, _and spend the next three weeks with Swindle following me around like some type of disgusting science experiment making unwanted comments at every juncture, OR I could simply forget about it, return to the Autobot base and spend the next three weeks devising interesting ways in which to overthrow Megatron and torment Jetfire. _

_Decisions, decisions._

Making a stubborn 'hmph' noise, the seeker turned and took a final glance at Skywarp before hearing the faint hum that signalled the activation of the gate. Somewhere, on the edge of perception, the jet warrior snatched up the following exchange:

"_Forget it."_

"_Please?"_

"_No?"_

"_C'mooooon, 'Jack, somebody's _gotta_ say it!"_

"_Aaargh…DECEPTICONS, RETREAT!"_

Just before disappearing, it occurred to Starscream that some things never changed. The sharp-toothed grin produced at this realization was a mirror of Megatron's own. Millions of lines blurred around him and colour moved dizzyingly as the world went static.

"_Autobots…warp out!"_


	17. Sky

Sky

Sideswipe was the first to notice Megatron's disembodied head floating in mid-air. Understandably, he screamed.

Once the youngest Autobot had calmed down and Rave had been persuaded to lower the gun, Optimus turned to the holo-screen with a hard look. The projection of Megatron smirked at him. Obviously, the Decepticon hierarchy had discovered something that it thought the Autobots hadn't. Blast.

"Is there any point to this, Megatron?" the Autobot asked stiffly.

The tyrant grinned coldly at him. A smug sort of grin, Optimus noted with some dread.

"Merely to inform you that I have made resilient progress in our one-time joint endeavour, enemy mine," he replied rosily, the smugness taking on a nasty edge even as he spoke.

Pause.

"I beg pardon?"

"We've located the source of the problem, Prime."

Optimus stared, unsure of whether to trust the gleaming shark's grin on his nemesis's face. His analytical mind noted the mild damage done to Megatron's shoulder-treads, scattered scorch-marks that a casual look would have forgotten.

It also pointed out that he hardly looked quite the ticket himself, the brief battle with the clones having ruined whatever shine his finish had had that morning, leaving him looking more like a Decepticon demolitionist than the oh-so-fine Autobot Leader.

"I see." He kept his tone level, his voice anything but impolite. Everything but impolite. "Would you care to enlighten me or did just contact us to gloat?"

The Decepticon hierarchy lost a fraction of smugness in the glare it offered at this. With a snort, Megatron continued in a coldly brisk voice. "I deduce from the fact that you are standing upright that you have succeeded in recharging yourselves. My men, however, had not had the luxury. We have, however, succeeded in pinpointing the location of Sideways's device. He has created a cable-cutter."

Optimus had expected as much but his optics widened regardless. The phrase was mechanical jargon for a self-operating power-suppressor, referring to the initial way it made one feel as though mech fluid was being drained from one's wiring at an alarming rate. It was a project Autobot scientists had also been investigating with interest.

_I suppose I should have known _that_ idea would come back to bite me_, thought the commander in rueful resignation.

"He's hidden it off-planet. We'll send the co-ordinates through to you."

Prime nodded. "And I have your assurance that no Autobots will be harmed once we leave Earth's atmosphere?"

"Yes. Naturally, I would send my men after it, but most of them are currently…incapacitated. Besides", and here crimson optics narrowed, even as the smirk reappeared, "you did agree to this _truce_. We've done our part, Prime. It's your turn now. After all, you _do_ appear to be handling this _so _well."

With these parting words, the screen went blank once more.

Optimus Prime sighed. "Alright, Sideswipe, repower the warp room."

On the moon, Thrust looked nervously at his commander, as Megatron cut the link, threw back his head and laughed uproariously. For the next three minutes.

The warmth hit him like a wall. A big, friendly wall made up of comfort, affection and everything nice.

_Home sweet hole-in-a-rock._

Jetfire was as sobbingly relieved to return home as the others, but he did think that maybe leaping out of the warp room, driving halfway up Optimus Prime's leg, falling backwards and dropping down to rain praises upon the Autobot Leader's feet was a bit much. Swindle, evidently, did not agree.

Scavenger stretched upwards, arching his back in a movement adopted from the humans. Red Alert and Hot Shot stepped outside almost immediately, moving swiftly to greet Hoist and the others.

"_Brobrobrobrobrobrobro…"_

The words accompanied a streak of blue/yellow that charged into the room, leapt into the air with a show of agility that never appeared in battle and tackled Hot Shot to the ground.

Hot Shot groaned in mock-dismay but clung to his adopted brother just as fiercely, as though afraid the younger 'Bot would slip through his fingers like sand were he to do any less. Only when Sideswipe made a faint grunt of protest when he released, returning Hot Shot's apologetic smile with a dazzling grin.

"Y'okay, Shot?" Jetfire heard the blue mech ask quietly, looking up at the elder with a mixture of relief and concern. Hot Shot looked momentarily awkward, before giving a lop-sided shrug and smirking. "Yeah." A nervous chuckle, born more from the release of tension than anything else. "C'mon, Sides, you know me! I'm Hot Shot! 'Course I'm okay."

In the corner, Jetfire noticed Alexis roll her eyes, before smiling herself and coming over to greet the two flyers. Optimus Prime, looking around with satisfaction, even as he tried to subtly remove Swindle from his foot, saw them and gave a nod.

"Welcome back, everyone."

A motley collection of similar declarations and beeps resounded throughout the base as Commettor disdainfully moved to get down from Jetfire's shoulder. The white Autobot heard a low, thoughtful beep on the other side of his head, and looked round just in time to see Jetstorm move cat-like onto his left shoulder, slinking up behind Commettor. There was a small, delectable moment of silence before Commettor gave a long, shrill beep and hit the floor with various noises of pain.

Jetfire looked to his left. It was difficult to make out Jetstorm's expression, but the thumbs up he gave the Autobot Second-In-Command required no interpretation.

Enjoying the sensation of chuckling again, Jetfire turned to Starscream with a half-smile on his face. The seeker was smirking cheerfully, even he glad to return to safety and warmth. Autobot base or no, it was always a fine and acceptable thing to be alive.

_Yes, it is fine,_ thought Jetfire distantly. _He's here-...We're _both _here and he is well and I am alive and that is real fine. _

Starscream caught Jetfire's look and returned it, noting a dim, edgy gleam of nervous happiness in the his optics. The moment held for just two seconds longer than strictly necessary, forming a small island of appreciative silence. As the Minicons scurried off to greet Preceptor and the other, Jetfire's dark lips fell into a quirking grin, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"You two."

Seeker and shuttle winced in perfect synchronization, and turned to see Optimus Prime looking at them with apology in his optics.

* * *

Cyclonus decided that this was the most welcome case of warp-sickness he had ever experienced in his life. Even as his mind and body argued as to whether the entire universe had turned itself upside down or not, a silly grin was already developing over his face. The dark, broken walls around him had never looked so beautiful, even tampered as they were by the bright spots still swimming over his vision.

Beside him, Wheeljack stood utterly still, looking as though he didn't dare yet to reactivate his optics. After all, what if the gate had malfunctioned? What if they weren't home at all, what ungodly horrors might lie ahead of him? Worst of all, _what was Megatron going to say about all this?_

Better not to look, then.

Cyclonus, who was entertaining none of his partner's paranoia, giggled foolishly and smacked the prone 'con on the back of the head.

"Snap out of it, 'Jack! We're back!"

The muffled groan he received for this was confusing but did nothing to hamper Cyclonus's enthusiasm.

Skywarp and Thundercracker leapt from the warp platform in a jumble of speed and colour and raucous laughter. Mayfly looked around, nodded once and stepped down with a military stride. Sighing happily to himself, Cyclonus gave an unexpected burst of relieved laughter upon seeing Demolisher and the new silver guy (_what the slag was his name again?..._) standing by the warp gate controls. The green tank-bot had a couple of weird scuff marks on him, which gave Cyclonus pause for an instant. What right did he have to be injured, thought the copter-bot indignantly. He hadn't sent the last four hours stranded in the Ant…Antar…Antarci…really cold crummy place with lots of ice, now had he? Hmph.

Demolisher caught his gaze and shook his head in apparent despair. Mildly cheered in the knowledge that, yet again, he had succeeded in driving someone to the edge of madness, Cyclonus looked over the room, wondering vaguely where Thrust had gotten to. It was too much, he supposed, to hope that the tactician had been eaten by Sideways in their absence…

"Would you care to explain yourselves?"

The smile froze. Beside him, he heard Wheeljack made a strange squeaking noise. Moving with almost no control over his shell, Cyclonus turned very, very slowly.

Megatron's gaze was not as terrible as he had imagined it would be, but it was bad enough. Distantly, a small, sane part of Cyclonus noted with interest that the warlord was looking even worse than Demolisher. Thrust stood beside him and even though the face-mask was still firmly in place, it was more than possible for the mind to make out the awful little smirk beneath it.

Crimson optics were narrow as they surveyed the scene. Which consisted of he and Wheeljack, both sporting a startling collection of dents and scorch marks. Far more in Wheeljack's case, due to his little scuffle with the annoying little yellow 'Bot.

Cyclonus watched as the black and white Decepticon stiffened under scrutiny and stood up as tall as he was able. And, to Cyclonus's astonishment, saluted.

And _now_ Cyclonus was impressed. In a sick, horrified, watching-a-sheep-stand-up-to-a-Tyrannosaurus way, but impressed nonetheless.

"S-Sir," acknowledged Wheeljack with only the slightest stutter, keeping his hand firmly out before him, flat, vertical and perpendicular to his face. Watching Megatron's face carefully, Cyclonus started to edge away from his darker comrade. Across the room, he could see Demolisher watching them in horror, unable to assist either the psychotic or the doomed ex-'bot. No one else, realized Cyclonus with some annoyance, seemed to either notice or care that he was about to die a gruesome death.

_Ah, well. Might as well give it a shot…,_ he thought. He opened his mouth to give an explanation and was stunned into silence when Megatron looked at Wheeljack and nodded.

"Very well, lieutenant. Perhaps you would care to elucidate?"

There was a short, horrible pause in which Cyclonus wondered if his lab-partner had frozen over again, before the dark 'Con's face seemed to relax a fraction. Wheeljack nodded- a tense, nervous sort of nod, Cyclonus saw worriedly-, and launched into a brief synopsis of the past four hours. During the oration, Cyclonus transferred his gaze to Demolisher, who looked as though he was letting a long, relieved metaphorical breath.

When Wheeljack finished-by which time Cyclonus had noticed the small puddle of mech-fluid pooling around Megatron's legs-, the Decepticon High Commander's optics had lost the murderous gleam they had held minutes before.

"A truce?"

Each syllable was pronounced in a clipped, careful tone, the sort used whenever their commander was unsure of whether or not flying into a destructive rage would be a useful course of action. His mouth was twisted in a manner hinting towards either massive uncertainty or a headache looming on the distant horizon.

Upon observing Wheeljack respond with another tight, terse nod, however, the twist slipped slowly away. With fortitude that Cyclonus knew he could never hope to imitate, Wheeljack's firm, steady gaze did not so much as waver from its target.

(Which was _just a little bit_ to the left of Megatron's own, far steadier gaze.)

And the tyrant cocked his head sideways, scrutinized the ex-Autobot, before giving a faint sound of approval.

"A truce. I see," he stated, and the tension…didn't quite evaporate, never really evaporated when Megatron was in the room. But it wound down from killing tension to the normal, surly-bunch-of-high-strung-'Cons-in-a-small-room kind. His brain letting pout a breath that his body had been unable to hold, Cyclonus noticed Demolisher slump against the nearest terminal in relief.

"Well done. Assemble yourselves at the nearest CR chamber. Use only enough power to reboot your auxiliaries. We've been in contact with the Autobots. They're going to solve our little problem for us."

With that, the warlord turned on his heel and strode off, presumably to find somewhere to sit down quietly before he collapsed from energon leakage. Nothing more was said other than a stern command to Demolisher to watch the sector-screens.

Cyclonus watched his leader leave, noting with little care or interest the large gash torn across his back (_musta been a real big laser_), before turning to Wheeljack with his mouth hanging open. The black Decepticon stood in the same rigid, military position, rather like a man who has emerged from the den of a large, starving lion, unscathed.

"He said…" began Cyclonus, before trailing off onto some private tangent of thought. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Megatron had _complimented_ the ex-Autobot. More important, Megatron had _meant _it.

Compliments from Megatron came upon a mech like a human finding a diamond amongst the contents of a bowl of cornflakes. They tended to leave intelligent people goggling after him, still trying to speak long after the warlord had departed.

Through all the exhaustion, all the horrors of the day, Cyclonus looked to his side and privately wondered whether or not Wheeljack had enough energy left to actually explode.

The mad helicopter didn't think so, but he edged casually off to the right.

To his credit, Wheeljack didn't goggle. He just stared blankly ahead, before realizing that most eyes in the room were, outwardly or not, focused on him. White rings flared around the sky-colour of his optics, an unnervingly Autobot gesture that only Cyclonus noticed. His back straightened up as his optic sensors reasserted themselves, and he gave a third, tight little nod, more to himself than any of the spectators. He even managed a weak, somewhat strained chuckle before moving off to the nearest CR chamber, muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

Watching him go, the grass green optics of the helicopter swivelled to meet the green, slightly mismatched ones belonging to the Decepticon Ground Commander and to his amazement, Cyclonus saw Demolisher give him a strained, waxen grin.

_We'll a make 'Con outa him yet,_ thought Cyclonus, surprised to feel a flicker of long-dead faction pride.

_I need a nap._

* * *

"_We have been circling for the last ten minutes, we are never going to see it." _

"_We'll see it."_

"_It isn't here."_

"_Try and be positive." _

"_I am. I'm positive that we are never going to see it." _

"_We'll see it." _

"_Says you."_

They arched in loose orbit above the planet. In the distance, the moon hung grey and ominous. Every else, there were stars.

Jetfire was happy.

Sure, he was tired. Sure, there'd been enough time to infuse only a small amount of energy into his systems before they'd taken to the skies. Sure, at any minute Sideways could appear, with or without an army of clones, and turn both Starscream and he into a cloud of radioactive particles. So what? He was a shuttle in space. Few things, in is opinion, were better than that. Earth skies were pretty, sure, but they also hung over his head like an enormous dome or…what was the human thing Rad had told them about?

Birdcage. That was it. The boy had brought a pet (what was it called? Oh, yeah…) parrot to show off at the base a few months ago. Jetfire had looked interested, made appreciative noises and then went and locked himself in his quarters until the shuddering had stopped.

For a few weeks after that, Rad had wondered why the big, cheerful white Autobot kept shooting him dirty looks. In the end, the kids had chalked it up to a virus.

"_Jetfire?"_

The seeker's voice over the recently rebooted com-link tore him from his thoughts. The tone, having been up until now laced with fatalism and annoyance, now sounded strangely petulant.

"_Yeah?"_

"_I see it."_

The bark of victorious laughter that crackled over the link at this did nothing to assuage Starscream's mood.

Both rose in unconscious formation, sliding off to either side to survey the satellite. On both sides, noted Jetfire with a shiver, it was just possible to make out the opposing factions symbol's, rendered side by side for all the universe to see. Both had been shredded through, slashed over with what looked to be metallic claws.

"_Psycho,"_ he muttered, more for the calm of his own voice than anything else. Unnerved, he moved to return to his wingmate's side, seeing nothing to report. The satellite-the 'cable-cutter' or whatever Op had called it- was tough, designed by someone with roughly twenty million years more scientific know-how than he had. Not indestructible, though, not against his recharged guns and Starscream's null-ray. Swindle had protested mightily upon being told to accompany him, but a few gentle words from Starscream had convinced him. Gentle words, involving the word 'or', the sentence 'I will make you', closely coupled to the phrase, 'eat my sword, you pathetic little minion'.

He was now power-linked to Starscream, riding on the jet's back in sulking silence.

Reactivating the com-link, Jetfire transmitted_, "Starscream, see anything interesting?"_ The device did not appear to have any weaponry attached, but Jetfire's it's-far-too-damn-easy nerves were tingling.

"_No. It's a relatively simplistic design, probably-… What the __**fra**__- OW!"_

"_Starscream!"_ gasped the Air Commander, whirling upwards in time to see his companion flung forward by a burst of pink light.

_Oh, __**frag.**_

Space exploded into colour.

Jetfire's world was swift to melt away into a hideous cavalcade of laser-light and Starscream's high-pitched shrieking from over the com-link. His comrade's cries were mingled with a ghastly static laughter, ancient and highly amused, transmitted directly into Jetfire's audios.

It was impossible to tell just where the lasers were coming from. They exploded from left and right, not emitting from the satellite itself but seemingly from everywhere else. One nicked Jetfire's wing, tearing into his thin outer-layer. Not deadly, not by itself, but all of them more than enough to shreds a mech's armour entirely.

"_Starscream!"_

Yelling, he activated his boosters and burst away from the death-trap, only to be caught on canopy by a stray blast. Which _hurt_, succeeding in doing more damage to his pride and pain sensors than armour, causing him to snarl and transform.

Whipping his gun out of subspace, entirely forgetting that it currently contained less charge than a toaster, he spun around and plunged back into the fray. He couldn't see Sideways, barely knew what he looked like but the bastard was _here_, yes, here somewhere and the bastard had damaged his finish _one_ time too many and _now_ the bastard was going to **die**.

Pink light glanced past his coating, none scoring a direct hit as he plunged into the centre, toward where it was still possible to make out the machine right in the middle of the gunfire.

"Okay…", he muttered, trying to locate a target. But, although the gunfire was being laid on from all directions, nowhere was there a weapon being aimed or a mechanism firing. Which was a pity, because at that particular moment, Jetfire would have been happy to see a Sideways clone. Hell, an army of Sideways clones. Anything that could prove to be a viable target would have been acceptable.

With no enemy to be seen, the shuttle tried to sight the satellite. But his mounting dismay, Jetfire realized that the object which had been so big, so unmistakably there only seconds ago was now impossible to discern. Through a mind that was rapidly clogging with warning messages and instinctive panic, it was difficult to decide whether the thing had actually disappeared, or whether it was just obscured behind the hail of pink blasts.

Come to that…where the slag was…?

"_**Aah!"**_

A plaintive cry from behind him and Jetfire spun around, wincing as his wounded joints bemoaned such treatment. All thoughts of pain fled to far horizons as the pale mech spotted Starscream

(_surprisingly clearly, really, considering all the laser fire_, thought a small, coldly analytical part of his mind, quickly drowned out by plain panic)

, struggling piteously. Both arms and legs were trapped, held in place by a thin, grey trail of matter that wrapped itself around the seeker's limbs. The grey thread was traced up to a dim, barely-discernable form that Jetfire instantly recognized, regardless. Why not? He had seen his picture, seen what footage the Autobots had of him.

Starscream wriggled again, whimpering as he tried to free himself. His coldly beautiful face was torn in fear and hurt, causing a dark wave of enraged fire to swell within Jetfire's spark. He stared at the incorporeal figure of static, holding the seeker in place with sadistic glee on what was recognizable as his face.

Sideways, thought Jetfire, fury causing him to almost overlook that chilly little voice as it tried once more to attract his attention

(_something wrong with this picture_)

. Neither seeker nor spirit seemed to have noticed him yet. He raised his gun, optics narrowing as he sighted Sideways, aiming roughly at where he calculated his sparkbox to be. An entirely alien coldness had washed over him, and, for a second, he thought he understood what was going through Starscream's mind when he laughed in battle, what was going through Megatron's when he targeted an enemy. Not anger, not fear, not even pain, truly. Just a simple thought, ugly and cold and plain as day; _die_

He pulled the trigger.

And watched as his shot went flying off into space, disappearing amongst the vastness of the stars.

At precisely the same moment, he heard, a slow, soft cackle coming from behind him.

Not from the com-link. Distinctly, illogically, the voice seemed to travel from behind him. It wasn't a voice he knew, nor was it a voice he had to know to realize what was important. It was the voice of a calculating, analytical lunatic.

As a shadow dropped over Jetfire's senses, he stared once more at where Starscream had been, where Sideways had been. Where neither one was anymore.

Hologram, murmured the cold one, ignoring the rest of his mind as it feverishly repeated what it believed to itself. _N__otpossibleNotpossibleNotpossibleNot-_

Arm dropping to his side, Jetfire turned to see Sideways. No longer mistakable for either Autobot or Decepticon the virus was composed of a cloud of shifting grey. His head was only vaguely recognizable, supported by a collection of cords. Carlos or Sideswipe would have noted the similarity to an adder.

Reflex took over and he lifted his arm once more. Only to remember, with a dull sensation of terror, that his gun had not enough power to fire.

The weirdly pink orbs landed on him, and Sideways gave another chuckle, no longer just sounding in Jefire's back audios, but all around him, creating a world of splintered sound and low, demented laughter.

He tried to move-knew he had to move, knew he had to do something-but he found himself stuck in place, none of his circuits obeying his command. It felt as though his reserves had finally gone dry, as though his entire shell was seizing up from energy depletion. Some part of his mind, perfectly aware of what was happening, ordered him to stop looking at the laughing creature, but he was helpless to obey. However much his mainframe roared and ranted in the background, his optics remained firmly focused on the other's optics, his hands, his smile

(_smile, what smile, he doesn't have a _face_, you idiot_)

, reason and logic swiftly drown away by an older, colder voice that was not his own

_**Mine. You're mine now. Give it up. Mine. Fool. Stop fighting. You're mine. Hold still. Mine.**_

Just as he felt himself starting to give, a voice sliced through his mind like a cheese knife. A shrill, sharp, decidedly _un_-piteous voice.

"_Jetfire, get down!"_

The words-the _voice_-plunged into his mainframe like a two million volt cable. He would have gasped, had there been time.

_What the krell…?_

In a two-second moment of clarity, the cold voice that was his own took advantage. Totally ignoring the rest of his slow, stunted thought processes, it reared back, quickly calculated the odds, and slammed against the other as hard as it could.

_Get OUT!_

Far away, something shrieked in fury, as his mind was swept clean and his vision shifted. Before the shuttle's startled eyes, the image of Sideways shimmered greasily, the impossible smile disintegrating. The purple figure disappeared, replaced by the gleaming, shimmering satellite. The satellite.

Hologram_itwasanotherdamned_holo

"_**Jetfire!"**_

Feeling the intense warmth growing on his back, Jetfire had just enough presence of mind left to fling himself to the right. As he did, his optics sizzled as they observed the twin null rays blast past him, vicious, victorious lines of purple.

The explosion, it should be noted, was quite a sight.

* * *

Sideswipe gasped, sudden disorientation sending him to his knees. On the ground his optics burst wide into unnaturally vibrant colour. A shiver ran through his shell as energy flooded into his circuitry. Delicious, cool, hot, fiery, painful, his drained reserves snapped back to attention, sending bolts of electricity running into his limbs and across his spark-box.

Dimly, the worlds still spinning, he was aware of gasps and yelps from the others, though only Hot Shot had actually collapsed from the input. Stars twinkled briefly over his vision before going out in miniature supernovas. Gradually, his mind faded from the brilliant white of rejuvenation, flickering briefly through black before clearing entirely.

He looked up and saw the ceiling.

_Man, we've got a really nice ceiling_, he thought dazedly._ I need energon._

Hot Shot appeared to block the view. With interest, Sideswipe noted the concern upon his friend's face.

"Swipe! Are you okay?!"

He considered this.

"Yeah. I'm okay", he said, voice lapsing into an odd chuckle as the high of fresh energy coursed through his systems. "But…I could really use some high-grade right about now…"

It took a few minutes for everyone to work themselves out, running tests ordered by Optimus on their bodies, ensuring that nothing had gone dead or frozen. Liftor and Longarm insisted on running individual check-ups, whilst Skyscan snorted and stalked away to stand in a corner. Whilst Red Alert and Hoist turned themselves to the task of their comrades' various injuries, the remaining Autobots busied themselves with the latest concern; finding the errant flyers.

"Do you see them?" queried Optimus of Sideswipe, bent over the planetary radar system. The younger bot made a nervous clicking sound and shook his head. Which Rave was sitting upon, scowling mightily at the equipment.

"There was definitely something…", he murmured with worry in his processors, trying again to refine the tracking scanner. On the desktop beside him, Sonar was pacing. "Something…big…"

"Sounded kinda like an explosion", opined Fred thoughtfully, not noticing the way every person in the room flinched at that.

The young boy chewed a ham sandwich as a worried silence set in. Down by Scavenger's foot, Alexis gave a strange sort of sniffle. The green mech noticed, and sighed, shaking his head at the sentimentality of fleshlings. Then Hot Shot spoke, addressing Scavenger in a slow voice.

"Do you...think he'll be okay?"

The mercenary glanced up, snorted and returned to his former position; optics off, stretched out across the floor, hands behind his head.

"Of course he will", grunted the mercenary, in tones of hard-earned experience that every bot in the room heard quite clearly. "He's _Jetfire_."

* * *

From the throne room, it was possible to see the shrapnel, spread out wide like a monstrous flower against the sky.

Smirking as the energy rush died away, Megatron hauled himself to his feet and surveyed his troops. The twins lay on the floor groaning in near-perfect synchrony. Cyclonus was on his feet and darting from one side of the room to the other in eerie bursts of exuberant speed. Wheeljack and Demolisher were slumped against a computer terminal, whilst the rest shook themselves and ran quick scans.

"Wow…what d'ya think did that?" asked Cyclonus in wonder, staring up at the explosion, violent and startlingly vivid as it hung in space.

"That? Probably Starscream," sniffed Megatron, examining a crack on his finger.

* * *

_Am I dead?_

This was the first, almost uncaring question that wandered aimlessly through Jetfire's mind. The second (_Is __**he**__ dead?)_ was quite a bit more urgent.

Activating his thrusters with a groan of effort and a painfully inelegant lurch, the Autobot looked around. The first thing he saw was Earth. Big and blue and green. Yep. Check one Earth.

_Guess that's a good thing_, he thought, trying valiantly to drum up some enthusiasm. It was difficult though. Most of the world seemed to contain only pain. Powered-up pain, but pain.

The second thing he saw was the moon. Check one moon. That was still in tact, unfortunately. The third was the debris that surrounded him on all sides, floating like metallic jellyfish. The cable-cutter was in fragments, few of them bigger than Jetfire's hand. Check one decimated demon-machine.

Looking down, he noted that his blast-armour had taken the brunt of the blast, leaving him singed, filthy and sore enough to mercy-murder, but with a full set of limbs.

_Guess that's good, too._

The fourth thing was the black fist that appeared quite suddenly and had a brief, joyful reunion with his nose. Swiftly followed by a raspy voice next to his audio receptors, unmistakable even as he cursed him and reared backwards. _"Jetfire, you idiot."_

Check one Starscream. List completed.

"_I thought you were dead," _muttered the shuttle sourly, feeling the tip of his faceplate gingerly. It was amazing that the thing was still intact, considering the trauma it had been through in the past twelve hours. To which Starscream only gave a ragged, not-quite-mirthless chuckle and replied, _"I doubt it."_

"_Y'know, if I'd known how often you do that, I'd have left the mask on." _

Either that or killed him before he joined up.

"_What, exactly, were you doing? You looked like you were watching a vid-screen."_

"_Uh…"_

Whether or not to tell Starscream about that short, frozen, immensely horrifying little episode. Even now, his scanners ran another quick check over his shell and systems, ensuring that no trace of the incorporeal creature remained. Thinking about Sideways, thinking about the way he had hung shell-shocked before him made him feel oddly…tainted, for some reason. The feeling was no pleasant.

"_Tell you when we get back to base,_" he muttered, glancing at Starscream with just a hint of pleading.

The seeker gaze him a sideways look, but decided not to ask. At least, not yet.

Checking his wingmate subtly, Jetfire saw Swindle, clinging weakly to Starscream's back and looking as though he was trying to decide between biting his larger partner or simply launching into a massive temper tantrum when they return to base.

"_My nose hurts. Just thought you might want to know."_

"_Oh, stop whining. Are you functional?"_ asked the seeker crossly, inspecting his wings for damage. Jetfire noticed that not all the shrapnel was made up of bits of satellite. A few here and there had a distinct white or red tinge to them.

"_Think so."_

"_Good. I believe our work here is done, don't you?"_ Starscream looked pointedly upwards at the mess that was Sideways's brilliant machine. And Jetfire couldn't quite suppress a grin.

As Starscream transformed and powered up his engines, Jetfire looked at the space where the satellite had hovered, the daisy-cloud of broken parts and metal.

"_Bastard,"_ muttered Jetfire, watching the shrapnel begin to slowly disperse.


	18. By Thee Beguiled

Epilogue: By Thee Beguiled

Optimus leaned against a wall and watched.

There was not, in truth, a lack of things to watch. Even on a normal day, the Autobot headquarters were rarely lacking in some variety of cabaret. On a normal day, such could range from an full-red attack to a sudden and suspicious outbreak of weasels.

The med-bay had been turned into an impromptu meeting place, team mates slipping in to congratulate their companions, most of whom were still in for repairs. Utterly exhausted, Red Alert had managed to staunch up the one or two ore serious wounds before Optimus had ordered him to lie down and be fixed himself. The medic had out up a feeble, token protest before surrendering with ill grace, allowing Incinerator and First Aid to tend to his injuries. Long Arm was now supervising the others, assisted by Hoist, Blurr and two thirds of the Minicons in the base. Sideswipe had also tried to make use of himself, but after the boy had accidentally tangled up half of the relays in Scavenger's arm, Nightbeat had gently suggested that he stick to transporting tools.

Sideswipe seemed perfectly happy with this, although the loud crash that Optimus heard from somewhere amongst the throng seemed to imply that the young warrior had discovered yet another task he was enthusiastically bad at.

Optimus didn't look round. His gaze was focused somewhere else.

The Skyboom Shield Minicons were gathered in a corner, communicating to one another via their typical computer-speak. Mirage was beside Hot Shot's foot, performing a quick fix-up that the recharging 'Bot seemed completely unaware of. Sideswipe was half-coiled beside his adopted sibling, the younger bot producing a not-quite-comedic image of protectiveness over the older, more experienced brother.

Oddly endearing as the scene was, Optimus found himself transferring his gaze onto the three yellow mechanics who worked at the Autobot's feet. Occasionally, he would detect bursts of encrypted, beeping laughter as they toiled, looking almost content.

A spiky little thought penetrated Optimus Prime's warm feeling of contented triumph, a thought as ugly and disdainful as it was terrifying.

_Vampires._

Most of him railed against this, declaring loudly the callous idiocy of such a statement. They had saved his life. With no especial love for him, they had saved his life, going so far as to endanger their own. For him.

_Vampires._

_No. I don't believe it. I won't believe it. _

_Vampires._

The safety of victory tainted, he now looked over his living, chattering, complaining crew, and drew what comfort he could. A cautious amount of joy rekindled itself, and the wicked little idea was blotted out, sulkily releasing its hold on him as he leaned back against the wall and sighed.

A beeping by his foot alerted him to the presence of Sparkplug. The little yellow Minicon looked up at him questioningly. Sparkplug had always been a good detector of Optimus's occasional mood swings. Often more in touch with the large Autobot than any other, even back on Cybertron where such behaviour had not always been looked upon favourably by members of his faction.

"What's wrong?" he repeated, large optics searching his partner for an answer. Optimus began to speak then glanced back at where the Shield team stood, chatting idly with Liftor and Jolt. After a second, Optimus shook his head and turned away.

"Nothing, Sparkplug", he waved as he strode off in the direction of his study. "Nothing."

* * *

Megatron folded his arms across his torso and waited.

There was no breeze to blow up an eerily dramatic thread of dust around his feet, yet perhaps this would have been appropriate.

He didn't look to be waiting. He looked to be examining one of the larger holes in the ship's exterior. When Demolisher and the others got back to work, he thought, they'd really have to begin patching that up.

His purpose for being outside, however, did not explain why he wasn't actually looking at the ship, or the hole for that matter. Nor did it really make clear the reasoning behind bringing the Requiem Blaster along with him. The gun lay, barrel down in the dirt, propped up against one leg. And he waited.

Leader-One had not approved of the idea. Oh, he had been far too tactful to say so, but his every gesture and muted beep hinted towards feelings of grave foreboding at Megatron's latest foible. He'd even gone so far as to offer to accompany the leader outside, an offer which had been dismissed after some thought. Megaton had decided that he would rather do this on his own.

Still, he found himself rather glad that he'd thought to bring the Space Team out with him.

_Dust._

His sensors flared to life, scanning the ground for any hint of life. Nothing, they reported back but it was here. He knew it was here.

And now it as taking shape.

Not distinct shape, barely recognizable, in fact. The creature was still weak, still reeling from the bitter taste of defeat. Moon dust swirled off the ground, several motes catching in the light of Megatron's optical sensors. Concentrating very carefully, the warlord could make out the faint fluctuations in the Requiem Blaster's field, as it's components realized and whispered out their fear.

Megatron kept his gaze locked onto Sideways as the grey cloud built itself up into a faint figure that was just recognizable as the biker-bot's silhouette. One quick glance assured him that no clones or other horrors were taking shape on either side.

Megatron smirked quietly to himself.

Even so, he acknowledged, there was something very…disturbing about the apparition. Sideways currently lacked the power to present himself as anything more than a thin, shifting cloud of energy and consciousness, which was bad enough, in its way. It was like watching someone carrying their own head.

The shifting cloud stopped shifting, and Megatron stared back into the eyes of snubbed Damnation.

He allowed the moment to stretch for just a second longer than strictly necessary. Then he raised one hand in a sweeping movement and hailed the damaged Devil's advocate with a hearty wave.

He spoke, and his voice was a convivial roar against the other's brittle, cold silence.

"Sideways! My dear, dear ex-comrade! My, my, you don't look well."

No response, but the dust skittered ominously over the ground.

"Do forgive me, by the way. I seem to have rather ruined your plans, haven't I?"

It was interesting, he noted. There was no wind surrounding them, yet the serpent-shaped dust cloud seemed to be blowing gently from side to side. Megatron subtly expanded his energy field (energy to spare! How rich! How wonderful!), and sensed the icy-cold of Sideways's thoughts, made chillier by the smoky heat of is own.

He smiled disarmingly at the other, and spread both his hands before him. Fingers splayed wide, a gesture of innocent confusion and undercut with unspoken challenge.

"I must confess, I find myself wandering what you're going to do next. Difficult, no? You've certainly not made yourself very popular, you realize. I doubt even Prime would be willing to accept you back into his fold. Who will the traitor align himself with now, now that there is no one left who can stand his presence? You've worked yourself into something of a corner, haven't you, Sideways?"

The voice, when it finally came, was almost a sigh. A breath of ice amongst the gale.

_You __**will**__ die._

All trace elements of good humour fell from Megatron's face, replaced by a dark-hearted, threat-laced grin. "Not today. And not, coward, by your hands."

With the words left hanging in the air, he turned to go. And as the Minicons' fear erupted and the taste of Sideways's energy behind him turned brilliant scarlet with loathing, Megatron's grin got only sharper, only colder, only harder.

He turned, and watched as the feeble collection of moondust particles expanded, exploding in all directions. A sandstorm on a satellite with no air, dust propelled upwards by some unseen force, the power of Sideways's promise behind every one.

The dust clouds built themselves up, up, up into forming the semblance of a face. Not an identifiable face by any means, but with definite boundaries and the vaguest shadow of a nosecone. What was most obvious, most definable about it- not to Megatron's surprise- were the optics. They lay, twin tigers in the heat of swirling grey havoc, pink and gold locked around each other. To Wheeljack, they would have looked like flames. To Red Alert, like the barrels of two unholy guns powering up. To Starscream, they would have looked oddly similar to Megatron's own.

They were beauty and it was beauty born in hell.

_I will make you to ash,_ the voice hissed, and it was no longer the smooth, silken flow of Sideways. _I will trample upon your broken, smelted remains and I will strew the dust of your empire to the farthest corners of the universe. I will set your planet to flame and lightning and Death will be your reward, Guardian. I will send plague and torment to you and your warriors, I will wipe your puny little army from existence. Autobot, Decepticon, limbs shall become one on a pyre made of pain and ice. You will pay. You will pay. You will all pay._

A tendril of dust curled out, brushing against Megatron's face with the tenderness of a soulmate, before striking him hard over helmet and chin, leaving ugly friction burns behind.

_And when I am done, I will raise your leaking shell to the highest pinnacle on the coldest planet. And underneath you, there shall be a plaque, and on that plaque will read, 'Here lies Megatron the Mighty.'_

Megatron winced but didn't flinch. The wince itself looked more like a snarl, which it soon became. Sharpened taste-detectors, wolf-teeth were exposed. Alpha fury made crimson darken to deep magenta as legs parted to either side, slipping into the stance of a gladiator.

The words were made of steel.

"Hear me, creature. I am Megatron. I am Decepticon. And I am leader. And should you venture near me, my men or my planet I shall dedicate eternity to bringing you to termination. And your end shall not be quick, no. You will suffer. Your screams will be heard by all who wish to hear them. Your spark shall be torn from your broken torso by my own hand. And when _**I **_am done, your ashes left to form a small pile before a inscription, reading, '_Here lies the greatest fool that ever lived'_. "

The words were strong, each one spat out trailing a comet-tail of anger behind it. In truth, in his deepest spark, the Decepticon leader knew that he was afraid. Sensed that violent threats, violence itself, meant nothing to the one before him. Sensed that, however weak the creature may be, destroying him may not be within his power.

He knew all this, and so swore the words to himself, even as he lay them before Sideways. Pride was their main component, molten promise the power that projected them.

"Be gone. You lie as Autobots lie, coward, and your hypocrisy outstrips even theirs. You cheat, you hide, you cower. And your deceit tires me."

He drew himself up, aware that the Minicons's howls of fear had softened to a quiet, tension-filled hum.

"So leave, craven. And take your dust with you."

The hell-optics flared nova-bright, the dust rose upwards on an enraged shriek. Before it collapsed, sinking once again to the floor of the moon, golden-pink fading away as the weakened enemy realized his own limitations. The thick of the cloud touched down with an almost audible 'thump', a flash of pink and a shadow just visible. And then they, too, vanished.

Megatron waited three minutes more. When, at last, he was sure that nothing horrible was about to leap from space itself and consume him whole, he relaxed. Striding over to pick up the trembling Space Team-feeling only trace elements of guilt for bringing them in the first place-, he cast one look over his shoulder.

"Bastard," the tyrant growled, before lifting up the Requiem Blaster and striding inside.

* * *

There were worse places to find yourself, at nine 'o clock in the morning, than stuck in the Autobot med-bay, staring miserably up at the ceiling.

Jetfire decided to list them.

After seven failed attempts, he gave up and resigned himself to the aimless wandering of his own thoughts.

All of the others had already left. Apart from him, Hot Shot had spent the longest amount of time in repairs. Sideswipe, of course, had waited faithfully in the corner whilst Red Alert worked, leaping forth to embrace his brother only when all was mended. The fact that his brother floundered pathetically and yelped in pain when enthusiastically hugged had done very little to deter the younger Autobot's mood. Both had left one hour ago, Optimus and Scavenger two hours before that. And now Jetfire was alone.

And bored.

His self-repair systems had kicked in quickly, patching up the minor wounds and leaving Red Alert to tend to his marred torso and the mess of his wings. Once the job was done, however, the medic had immediately ordered Jetfire to remain in the med bay until his reserves had had time to recalibrate themselves. When Jetfire had protested, Red Alert had informed Optimus Prime, who had curtly reinforced the order. This, combined with the medic's threat to weld him to the nearest Minicon, had finally quelled Jetfire's outrage.

He stared up at the ceiling, seething over the unfairness of it, cursing the evil of Sideways and mulling over the stupidity of everything in the universe.

Commettor had reluctantly come to visit, reassuring himself of his partner's stability before leaving the shuttle in a wordless sulk. It occurred to Jetfire that, while his blue and red partner did not necessarily like him, he would at least be tolerated as long as he didn't do anything too outlandishly silly. Die, for example. Swindle had also drifted by earlier, saying nothing but perching on a high ledge, watching Jetfire from above. When the Autobot had next looked up, the Minicon had gone.

_Twenty-eight thousand, seven hundred and ninety-nine energon cubes on the wall, twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine cubes…oh __**help**__, I'm singing in my head again…_

The door hissed open.

Jetfire perked up and looked towards it with interest, waiting to see who had come to play Let's Torment The Shuttle now. Instead, he was greeted by the rather unnerving sight of the door sliding shut again, with no sign of a visitor before it.

Confused, the shuttle glanced around the room, finding it to be as empty as an energon cube given to Scavenger. When a small snicker reached his audios, however, he smiled, and raised his optics to the ceiling.

There was no one there.

"You're awake."

Jetfire half-succeeded in stifling a scream, snapping his head down so quickly the cables in his neck almost tore loose. He gaped at the sight of Starscream, sitting calmly on the edge of the recharge bed.

"…How did you do that?" he queried after a moment.

The seeker chose to ignore him, having located one of Red Alert's tools. He was currently fiddling with it, giving the spikier bits looks of annoyed curiosity.

Re-entry had not been enjoyable, with battered armour and damaged wings. What had been even more frustrating had been Starscream's insistence on snagging a piece of debris from the satellite, to present to Alexis. When questioned upon this, the seeker had merely grunted and mentioned something about the "stupid humans wanting a souvenir".

Jetfire, who couldn't really bring himself to like any of the children, wandered what the strange hold the little Earthling female seemed to have over the ex-Decepticon. They had, as a result of Starscream's request, stayed up ten minutes longer than necessary, searching for a piece of debris that he deemed worthy.

By the time they had finally landed back at base, both seeker and shuttle looked, in Red Alert's clipped words, "a mess".

Rather than make any enquiries, Jetfire let his head fall back down to the platform. As he did, fragments of the day's events spun through his mind like snowflakes.

"…You never told me you had brothers," he said after a while.

Response to this was given much as he'd expected it; a non-committal grunt and a muttered "I do." He nodded, laying silent for a moment before bracing himself for it.

"Not bonded?" he asked, knowing it was wrong to hope and hoping anyway.

"No."

Starscream looked up at Jetfire's sigh of relief, moving closer to peer down at the shuttle with narrowed optics.

"And what, pray tell, does it matter to you?" he queried, suspicious but not cold. Before Jetfire, stung, could reply, he continued. "Besides, we're a trine. And split-sparked," he added mutinously, pronouncing the term as if it were a curse. Which, to some extent, it was. "We hardly need to bond. Skywarp might have wanted to, once, but…"

The sentence lost itself, trailing away into the infinite umbrage of 'what if's. The seeker fell silent, before catching the look of half-exasperated confusion Jetfire bore. Chilly lips gave way to a smirk as the storm clouds were, for the moment, forgotten.

"Honestly Jetfire, do you know _nothing_ of Decepticons?" he purred, teasing now, leaning over slightly to press one finger under Jetfire's chin.

Jetfire opened his mouth, closed it and gave a groan of resignation. He raised himself up onto his elbow-joints, meeting Starscream's scrutinizing gaze. "It's just…I don't…they're…I don't understand seekers," he finished lamely, waving on hand uselessly, absurdly seeking to apologize for what he had always known to be true.

But the fire-slit gaze above him required no apology, brushing away his sincerity with a snort. To Jetfire's surprise, he watched as his hand moved of its own volition, sneaking across the dead metal to lie upon the seeker's own, ivory-ebony forming a chess board.

The contact made, flash-flood fury blinked onto Starscream's face, though his hand moved not one inch.

"Autobot…", he growled, glaring at Jetfire with a look that made the other's soul freeze. Then the seeker was leaning, brushing canopy over chestplate, arm against arching wing. His lips stopped dead an inch from Jetfire's, so close the shuttle could feel the electric beat of the other's field, so close he could practically taste the odd needing, the threat, the

_(fear)_

strangeness. It was interesting, really, watching the brash-mouthed traitor waver. Their faces were painfully near, allowing Jetfire's brilliant sensors to watch as child-like indecision danced over Starscream's millennia-old face.

Thinking quickly, deciding faster, Jetfire pushed himself upwards and brought them into contact, slipping his fingers around Starscream's own as he did so. And after that, really, it was easy.

When they parted, Jetfire looked at the other with all the wide-eyed innocence he could muster.

"Y'know, I didn't need energy that time," he drawled.

"I know, you stupid Autobot."

"Oh. Okay."

As they leaned in once more, Jetfire felt something hard and cold slide up his arm, right before something snapped shut around his wrist with an audible 'click.'

_Oh no…he wouldn't…_

With a sinking sensation, Jetfire realized that he most certainly would.

As Starscream drew away, Jetfire glared viciously at him. In vain, he jiggled at the handcuff, unsurprised to discover that this yielded absolutely no reaction, apart from making Starscream's smirk erupt into a huge, twisted smile.

"You are a dead mech," said Jetfire in a cold, cold voice.

All doubt shoved away and confidence once again at full bloom, the seeker gave a raspy chuckle. Stretching himself out, limbs almost parallel to Jetfire's, he poised himself upon one elbow-joint.

"Tell me, Jetfire," the seeker murmured, his voice now laced with oozing satisfaction. "Do you remember the Mars mission?"

Despite all other sensations, good and bad, Jetfire winced internally. Very well did he remember the Mars mission. He spent quite a bit of time trying to forget the Mars mission. He'd eventually chalked the whole scenario up to tiredness and a lack of patience on his part. Combined, possibly, with just a modicum of insanity on the hurting seeker's part. Still, it had never been mentioned between them and Starscream had, seemingly, never remembered to make good his threats.

At least, until now.

Jetfire shivered gently as a pitch-dark digit stroked the curve of one shoulder. The second hand moved to place itself very decidedly over Jetfire's chestplate. As Jetfire grinned slowly, one red leg settled across his outstretched thrusters, effectively pinning him to the platform. Ignoring the shuttle's grunt of protest, Starscream moved upwards to touch one wing onto Jetfire's own, sending surprising ripples over both figures. Jetfire gasped, and laughed very, very softly.

"Well," smirked the seeker as his fingers played lightly over Jetfire's faceplate. "Here's what happens when you do _that sort of thing…"_

* * *

Scavenger_ considered_ asking when Hoist walked by without seeming to notice him, a happy gleam in his eye. It was odd for the short Autobot to pass by without greeting a comrade.

Scavenger opened his mouth, then quickly thought better of it, as he noted that the mechanic was muttering quietly to himself. A quick glance picked up on the welding device clenched tightly in Hoist's hand, whilst a second noticed the can of bright green paint slung over one shoulder.

Sometimes, Scavenger thought, it was better not to ask.

He continued on his way, exchanging only the quickest, most weary of glances with Blurr. Mercenary and sniper were making their way to the shooting range, moving quickly so as to avoid by seen by Red Alert. The medical officer had become something of a tyrant over the course of the day, ordering Autobots to stay in their quarters and _just damn well sit still and heal, will you, I am NOT performing any more repairs today!!!_

Last Scavenger had seen of the medic, Red Alert had been going out for a drive. It might have had something to do with Prime's gentle yet firm suggestion that he take a break.

"Wait," muttered Blurr, turning off in the direction of the med bay.

"How come?" grunted Scavenger, in a hurry to reach the training rooms. He was certain that some frost still remained in his joints, and wanted very much to burn it out before it affected his motor relays. Not a condition that a younger mech would have feared, but Scavenger, despite his many arguments to the contrary, was fully aware that he was no longer young.

"Think I left one of my guns in here. Hold on…"

The sniper pressed in the authorization code, and stood back as the door slid slowly open.

There was a pause, before he raised his hand again and, very carefully, typed in the code again.

As the door slid shut behind them, both Scavenger and Blurr stood in the hallway, staring directly ahead of them. It would have been impossible to make out an expression on either face, but somehow there was the faint suggestion in both their stances that a lot of thinking was going on.

Then Scavenger turned, grunted briskly to himself and fixed Blurr with a cold look.

"This never happened."

"Agreed."

Both mechs nodded brusquely to each other before moving off to the target range, in slightly more of a hurry than was strictly necessary.

* * *

Cyclonus wandered down the hallway.

This, in itself, was unusual. Repairs on the ship had been postponed until the team had recovered, allowing Cyclonus at least a few day's worth of free time. That he was spending it stalking aimlessly through the moon base corridors instead of sleeping his sweet, happy little head off was strange.

Megatron had discovered that Disciplining his rather motley crew proved to be something of a problem. Wheeljack's very neat, very precise report, quite clearly indicated that none of them had actually done anything wrong, with the possible exception of the seeker twins in going to Earth unauthorized in the first place.

The report had, of course, been passed through the twitching hands of Cyclonus, who had done some very minor, very careful editing, adjusting one or two phrases and erasing the account of a few particular occasions. Insane Cyclonus was, but not stupid. There were times when even he recognized the need for tact.

Which was why only Skywarp and Thundercracker had been assigned to the task of meticulously scanning and analyzing every computer module in the base, checking for the slightest remnant of Sideways's poison. Whilst the rest of the Decepticons, in theory, returned to the task of fixing the ship. In theory.

Thrust had raised some objections, of course, in the face of Demolisher's suggestion of a forty-eight hour break, but he swiftly withdrawn his reservations when the tank-bot had explained his argument logically and rationally. Right after Cyclonus, revelling in the return of his beloved weaponry, had accidentally blasted Thrust through a wall in a moment of high-spiritedness.

Megatron had taken some more persuading, but with a the delivery of several well-worded pleas by Demolisher and one very neat, very carefully edited report, he had relented.

Their glorious leader had subsequently disappeared, after spending half an hour in a CR chamber. Demolisher had looked nervous for the first ten minutes of no Megatron, before Thrust had informed him of the leader's desire not to be disturbed. Cyclonus had last seen him taking the longest, most relished shot of high grade the copter-bot had ever seen.

As Cyclonus strolled in reasonably good spirits down the hallway, he espied a dark, brooding shape at the end of it.

_Ah HAH._ Cyclonus's face stretched to a grin.

Said dark shape was sitting in a hole torn in the base wall, his legs dangling down over the side. From where Cyclonus stood, it was just possible to make out the stars.

He subtly checked over Wheeljack's hands, stance and lack of guns, reassuring himself that the dark 'Con was not about to do anything…drastic. Satisfied that this was not the case-and more relieved than he liked to admit-, Cyclonus strode over to where the black car slouched.

"Heya," he hailed the other with, plonking himself down on the burnt-out ledge beside him.

Wheeljack's head snapped up in surprise, a small, well-trained part of him berating him for not noticing the helicopter's approach. The same part which was very faintly annoyed at the intrusion into his thoughts. The rest of him, however, pointed out that he hadn't really been thinking about anything in the first place. All in all, he decided, there was actually a mild sense of gratitude for the 'copter's presence.

He replied in a surly grunt, a habit which he would not admit to having fallen into. Secretly, the Autobot in him had always believed that this was how Decepticons greeted each other. He didn't notice the way Cyclonus rolled his optics but he did hear the contemplative 'hmm' as the other pulled up his legs and leaned against the opposite prop-up, hands resting behind his head.

Knowing by now what horrors Cyc's little 'hmm's usually entailed, he narrowed his optics suspiciously at the other and said, "What?"

The other ignored the question at first, tilting his head upwards in what Wheeljack thought was a deliberate attempt to annoy. Just when he'd decided to ignore Cyclonus back and return to star-gazing, a chirpy voice beside him spoke up.

"You're brooding," declared Cyclonus, smirking in an irritating manner.

Wheeljack stared. 'I'm what?"

"Brooding. You do it a lot."

Wheeljack was surprised. "I do?"

"Mm hmm. Usually when we win." Which, admittedly, did not happen often enough to make Wheeljack's pattern obvious to any but the most watchful of eyes.

Wheeljack considered this for a moment, before both accepting and dismissing it with a lop-sided shrug. He returned to the vista of stars, ignoring the quizzical look the helicopter threw him.

Cyclonus shook his head and settled back again. After a moment, his gaze wandered casually to Wheeljack's lap. His optics dawdled over the small construct in the other's hands, a miniature masterpiece of wires and metal. After a moment of silence, he risked asking. "What's that?"

The other started and glanced down. He then looked puzzled, as if momentarily forgetting what the thing was, before his face brightened fractionally into a quiet, curvy half-smile that Cyclonus hadn't seen before.

"Oh, this? Nothing, really. Just…thought I'd make something."

Cyclonus had no eyebrows to raise, but he made a metallic clicking sound in the front of his vocals that was the rough equivalent. "You can do that?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

"Yeah. I think so."

* * *

That night, slipping into recharge, there were no flames. Instead, there were snowflakes. Snowflakes, the faint scent of ice. And two blue optics, blue as the sea, the sky, blue in the dim sunlight outside the Academy, the first time he'd seen them.

The end.


End file.
